


Courage Unforeseen

by erobey



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erobey/pseuds/erobey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Gandalf did not fall in Moria? Here's a look at that notion set against the unlikely romance of Dwarf Lord and Elf Prince. A birthday gift for my friend Stef :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Pebble in the Well

#### "Few can foresee whither their road will lead them, till they come to its end." ~ Legolas (The Two Towers)  
"Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens." ~ Gimli (The Fellowship of the Ring)

## A Pebble in the Well

"Lean on me," said Gimli quietly, concerned by the elf's harsh and gasping breath. He held firmly to the narrow hips as they descended the winding stair in minute increments; Legolas setting his bare left foot down cautiously, pausing to find his balance before bringing the right to join it. The dwarf matched his halting progress. The archer's right hand, his draw-hand, rested on Gimli's shoulder with no discernible pressure and it was this fact that warranted the dwarf's gentle directive. There was no response to it; they moved down another two rungs on the curly-queue ladder.

Legolas was clearly suffering: respiration taxed, each effort to move more unsteady, each pause longer than the last as he struggled to remain upright. It was but a matter of time before he stumbled and then he would instinctively reach out to catch himself and clutch at the delicately wrought rail with his left hand, his bow hand. What agony that would induce made Gimli's heart constrict in anxious dismay. He felt useless to help Legolas, the more so since the elf paid him no heed, and this transformed his anxiety into irritation.

"Mahal! You'll not crush me, elf; now lean on me!" he bellowed, so loud that Legolas physically flinched and caught his breath. But then the lean, long fingers clutched the thick fabric of Gimli's tunic and at last he felt a change in the pressure there. Slowly, carefully, shaking, Legolas transferred his weight to the dwarf. "Good, good," soothed Gimli, sorry beyond words he'd startled the archer, realising only now that Legolas had not been ignoring him so much as concentrating on making it down the stairs. "Mayhap this is far enough for today and we might return to…"

"No."

The word was abrupt, terse, imperious even, and Gimli wondered how someone hurting so much could yet maintain so haughty a demeanour. He scowled up into the elf's face and immediately relented. Legolas' features were taut and blanched save for crimson streaks across his cheeks. The chords in his neck stood out; sweat dampened his brow and the stubby, ragged remains of his long yellow hair, which had burned away almost completely on the left side. There, the skin of his scalp showed bright red, patched and scabby in places, the band of cotton circled near his neck and clavicle was just visible beneath his loose tunic, the ruined ear still a stumpy blob but regenerating at a rate the dwarf found amazing. The elven prince was not so pretty these days. Gimli swallowed and managed a smile as he met the anguished blue eyes, reading the determination there and beneath it the silent pleading of the warrior's heart.

"So be it, but I've a mind to pause every ten steps and rest my legs. Foolish it is to make homes so high up it takes several hours just to reach the front door, say I, but then I am not an elf."

"No," said Legolas, softer, a hint of humour in the monosyllable this time, and while he did not smile he let Gimli ease him down to sit. He felt a careful, tentative arm support him at the back as the other took hold of his draw-hand, lifting it so that his arm was now draped over Gimli's shoulders. He sighed; the pain was no lesser but he felt better anyway, grateful for the dwarf's concern and persistent care. He leaned fully against the stout body, tucked his bow-hand closer to his heart, and tried to relax, tried to let the pain flow through him and on, away from his mind and heart, but it was such a deep torment he achieved only minimal relief.

He went back to counting heartbeats as he had been doing when Gimli roared at him. It was a practice learned when once he found himself wounded so badly he could not move, an arrow embedded deep in his side, and clung to a tree limb desperately hoping someone would find him before he died. This pain, he decided, was much worse, and he'd been cared for as best could be. He could not determine how many days had gone by since the battle and had not summoned strength to question Gimli yet. The dwarf took it as given that he knew, Legolas supposed, or that it didn't matter, for he never alluded to anything to do with that dreadful day. Yestreen, a new thought made its way into his reasoning and stuck in his mind. Perhaps there was a more sinister cause for Gimli's reticence.

Legolas feared someone had perished and the dwarf did not want to be the one to tell of it. Aragorn and Mithrandir came to see him every day, often several times a day, and both had taken a hand in the healing, but spoke little, saying not to worry; the others lacked for nothing here. Generally, Legolas preferred succinct conversation and they knew him well. Sam had clambered up silently one night to satisfy himself Legolas was all right, or at least remained among the living, bearing a handful of wild flowers: daisies, marigolds, blue-bells, and clovers. Apparently, this was a custom among his kind, taking flowers to cheer the sickly. Legolas was deeply touched by the gesture and tucked a blue-bell into his map case, there to remain until it fell to dust.

Sam did not stay long, having come only to quiet his fears, and besides he knew it was too painful for the elf to talk. He'd doubted the honesty of Wizard and Ranger, he said, but was glad to see 'those sky-blues clear and alert', and Legolas thought wryly that he and Sam had much more in common than some might suppose. Had he felt well, that notion would deserve a smile. None of the others had come, though, and it worried him now. Frodo had been hurt; surely he remembered that part correctly. Pain and pure physical shock had jumbled his recollections somewhat and that was the reason he wanted to go down to the ground and see the Fellowship gathered all together. Besides, Gimli was uncomfortable in the heights. He relayed none of this to the dwarf save his demand to see their friends.

"Yes, only elves are so set on living up among the leaves with the birds and the squirrels, but I suppose it makes sense for arboreal animals to stick together that way," Gimli jibed, not forgetting that Legolas was unable to make the expected repost about dwarves' kinship to moles and bats and sightless newts that preferred dark, dank tunnels in the bowels of the earth. He just sighed rather noisily. Gimli interpreted that as a huff and chuckled, reaching up to squeeze the hand lying limp on his shoulder.

He was very aware of the elves coming and going along the high bridges and walkways spanning the dizzying heights between the mighty trees around them, going slowly so to have a good look. They were respectful of Legolas' pain, though, he had to give them credit for that and Gimli could hardly fault them for their awed curiosity. He was in awe himself. It was the most foolishly brave deed he had ever witnessed and he suspected the elves felt the same even though many of them had lived more than ten times his own life-span. Legolas did not seem to notice the interest his heroism aroused; too immured in agony, Gimli suspected, to care that he was suddenly an object of renown and sure to enter into the ranks of legendary heroes of the First and Second Ages of his people.

Vibration, slight and fluttery, warned of another person descending and Gimli turned to see Haldir, that odious, obnoxious, vain, self-adoring, dwarf-hating bigot, tripping down the steps, face all screwed up in flabbergasted incredulity, alternately glaring at Gimli and peering with annoyed concern at Legolas, who had not reacted to his approach at all. Gimli let a rumbling growl exit his larynx and this effectively slowed the charging elf to a more cautious and measured pace.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, voice filled with accusation and resentment. "You cannot just haul him out of his sick bed and put him on display like this. Legolas is not strong enough to leave the talan."

"Take it up with your Lord," snapped Gimli. "Legolas wants to go down and so down we are going!" With that he stood and grasped Legolas under the right arm and low round the waist on the left. "Ready, lad?" he whispered, registered the slight nod and the tensing of muscles, and heaved the archer to his feet. A quick, bitten back curse left Legolas' lips and then he stood silent, rigid as an oak, fingers of his draw-hand digging painfully into the dwarf's shoulder. His breath came in rapid gusts and he trembled, but on his own he moved to the edge of the stair and put his left foot down one more step. "Slowly," cautioned Gimli, following, steadying the archer as before. "I've got you. One…two……three………"

So it went for ten steps, each pause longer and longer, every breath as near to a moan as Legolas was capable of uttering, until the tenth stair was reached. Gimli sat him down and Legolas all but collapsed, shoulders curled protectively inward round his injured body, bow-hand against his chest, fairly writhing in his futile effort to escape the discomfort. Gimli subtly rocked him, murmured encouraging noises in his ear. Gradually he calmed and the dwarf cast his eye over the remaining distance with a grim frown. "Twenty-two more; almost there." He forced a positive tone into the words and was pleased with the weary nod of ascent that served for answer; let the elf conserve his strength. Behind them, Haldir sat, too, three steps higher.

"I could help," he offered, speaking to Legolas directly, but a brief shake of negation was returned. Haldir exhaled an exasperated expletive and ran his hand over his hair fitfully. "I'm meant to look after you; Celeborn will have my ears if you suffer a setback due to this rash excursion. What is in your mind, Legolas? Do you mean to worsen your condition or…"

"Leave off!" Gimli thundered. "He's no need for your chastising and criticising and harping complaints! If you want to be useful, go ahead of us and let Aragorn and Mithrandir know we're on the way. All the Fellowship is to be there, mind."

Haldir stiffened and his hand flew to his dagger, infuriated to receive orders in this manner and from a dwarf at that, but he restrained his rage for Legolas' sake. The woodland prince had given his sanction, telling Celeborn he was only alive because of Gimli's aid. None could gainsay him save Celeborn, and the Lord of the Golden Wood chose to support his distant kinsman's son. Haldir rose and stepped past dwarf and elf, pausing to turn and bend low over Legolas. "This is your wish, Legolas?" he asked, softly setting a hand on the biceps of the mangled arm.

"Aye," hissed Legolas, eyes sealed in tight creases, twitching away from the contact and the sharp needling pain lancing beneath the fingers. They withdrew at once. Strange, he thought, that Gimli's heavy hands gave no pain while the sensitive digits of the Lorien Marshall were so biting, but realised the next instant this was because Gimli was so careful of where he let his hands come to rest. He knew Haldir was gone and Gimli confirmed it by gargling and snorting up a huge glob of phlegm from his sinuses and spewing it with obstreperous pleasure over the rail.

"Cursed elf thinks he owns you or something," he grumbled, dire menace infused into the faintly interrogative remark.

"Aye," Legolas tried not to smile and failed, so a long, low groan emerged.

"Don't exert yourself to explain," Gimli hastily admonished. "I know it is not so; you can barely abide his voice much less his touch."

It was true enough but Legolas' brows rose in surprise, and that was painful, too, so he did not pursue his intrigue over Gimli's unerring ability to read him. He had found it maddening at first, for Haldir had been one to explicate what Legolas was really thinking, too. The difference was that Haldir had always been wrong and yet refused to be corrected, insisting he knew Legolas' true self and denial was futile. The thoughts and feelings he assigned to Legolas were not only demeaning but confusing and the archer began to doubt his perception of himself. Haldir criticised everything from the way he held the bow to the rate at which he consumed his food.

Perhaps he was immature and spoiled, privileged and arrogant, accustomed to getting his way. Perhaps he would develop a better character if he learned to humble himself. Perhaps he would become a better warrior if he learned to draw the bow as Haldir did. Perhaps he would be happier if he learned to yield to Haldir's will. Before the affair ended, he had Legolas apologising for everything, though he had done nothing.

Gimli never announced what he believed was in Legolas' mind; he simply behaved in a manner that proved he understood. Instead of assigning negative values to all his traits, he accepted Legolas, validating the prince's self-perception as a worthy warrior, a son to be proud of, a loyal friend in arms, a desirable companion. Legolas soon discovered he was just as adept in discerning what passed behind The Dwarf's eyes, and this reciprocity of perception pleased him. Only his Adar knew him as thoroughly.

It was time to move on and he stirred; at once the dwarf jumped up and assisted him. Before they had gone five steps, not a short length of time by any means, the Hobbits poured into the clearing at the base of the tree, forming as was their habit a shield round Frodo. They peered up and called out greetings, sombrely, distress and nervousness in their voices, watching in obvious dread this tottering wreck making its way down to them with the aid of the dwarf, wan faces and wide eyes attesting to their belief Legolas would fall and incur more injuries.

Then Sam caught the elf's gaze and marvelled at the strength there, the defiant, proud, indomitable strength and knew they had no business pitying this person. He gave a determined nod and took charge at once, ordering Merry and Frodo to fetch one of the feather-filled pallets and a blanket or two. Pippin was to bring one of the broad awnings used to shield them from curious eyes overhead while they slept, but he ran first up the stairs, his boyish features all askew in his compassionate misery.

"Legolas, between us Gimli and I can carry you the rest of the way," he offered with a wheedling note, nearly desperate to be of aid. The sapphire eyes flashed and he stepped back, almost tumbling down the stairs himself but for a quick snatch at the banister.

"That's not needed, Pippin," said Gimli kindly. "Not that I wouldn't appreciate someone to spell me in this tedious task, hauling his sorry carcass about, but Legolas won't have it. It's me or none, you see." A garbled and indignant expletive was ignored as the dwarf went on, the Hobbit's gaze ping-ponging between the two, mouth ajar. "What would be much appreciated is some cool water to drink; it's thirst-making work for him. One of those silver ewers full should do, and add some of that elixir Galadriel makes that he's so particular about."

"Yes, right away, Gimli," Pippin grinned and flew to complete his mission.

By then it was time to sit again for Legolas had gone eleven steps and was done in. He made no effort to hide his agony and let Gimli hold him as he counted softly aloud the beats of the irreverent Naugrim's mighty heart. Suddenly Aragorn and Mithrandir were there bending over him, murmuring at him, or at Gimli perhaps. No, at him; it was all gentle scolding and the dwarf put an end to it.

"Boulders and Ash! He's done it already so why go on? What would you have, make him climb all that way back up there just to satisfy your healers' prescriptions?" blustered the dwarf. "Whatever error is involved in his decision, I assure you he is being amply punished without your reproofs."

Wizard and Ranger exchanged exasperated and flustered expressions. Mithrandir shrugged and knelt on the step before Legolas. "He's right, of course, pen neth. I was just stunned to see you try this and worried for you. We'd have come up, you know," he said, smiling his crinkled grin as the elf managed to lift his head and return the stare.

"Tired of bed," he complained. He couldn't help an instinctive cringe as the wizard reached for his bandaged bow-hand, curling over it, hiding it between his body and Gimli's broad back, uttering a frantic "Ba! (No!)"

"I checked it over before we started," Gimli assured, pushing back on Gandalf's gnarled fingers carefully, well aware of the affront he was committing against one of the Ainur, but determined to shield the elf form further pain. "Time enough to put him through all that later, after he's had his little visit and a rest. Might even get him to eat something substantial; exercise does wonders for the appetite."

"Right again, Master Dwarf," agreed Aragorn, clapping a hand on Mithrandir's shoulder and drawing him away. "Stop fussing over him; Legolas is obviously doing better than either of us suspected."

"Nay, just stubbornly trying to assert his superiority over all other beings, be they elves, dwarves, or men," scoffed Gimli.

"You forgot Hobbits," complained Frodo from below.

"No, he didn't neither," corrected Sam. "Mister Legolas does not place himself above Hobbits, just those other folk." That raised a laugh among them all, including the Lorien elves watching from their obscure perches among the limbs and branches.

Legolas looked up, noticing his audience for the first time, and wanted to hide. He hadn't thought about the Galadhrim seeing his ruined body, too consumed by the effort to simply breathe, but now the idea inundated his mind. Of course they were all talking about him again, comparing his present condition to how he looked before, pitying him, thinking Haldir was fortunate not to have bound to him. Dearly he wished he'd worn a hooded cloak. His hurrying gaze caught on Rumil, who raised a hesitant hand in salute and smiled awkwardly, calling out an overly cheery 'suilad'. The elven prince returned a faint half smile and flexed the fingers on his draw-hand in answer and turned away. The weight of their eyes was heavy on his heart.

At this point Boromir entered the glade, laden with and nearly hidden by the large fluffy mattress he was carrying. He looked like a huge walking pile of cotton laundry and he wobbled and stumbled, grumbling as Sam and Merry sought to guide him, their directions contradictory and conflicting so the poor man reeled from tree trunk to tree trunk. The archer watched all this with a warm glow, certain the little comedy was for his benefit entirely as the noble Gondorian stubbed his booted toe on a root and fell with a grunt atop his cushiony burden.

He rolled to his back and grinned up in upside down affability. "How about right here, Legolas?"

"Aye," he agreed, glad for the distraction.

"Nay, not so fast, Boromir," argued Aragorn. "Take it there beneath that rowan tree. It is all mossy at the base and thus will be even more comfortable. Wait, I'll spread a blanket first." The rugged Ranger scuttled over and shook out a fringed woven blanket, Merry taking a corner to help straighten it neatly. "Where are the pillows? We must have pillows for this to work at all," he fussed, arms akimbo, scowling as he surveyed the makeshift bed.

"Right," said Mithrandir. "Come, Merry, we'll retrieve them."

They did so and Sam found a second blanket while Boromir and Aragorn collected and erected the awning. Haldir reappeared with a hamper, Lord Celeborn himself following with a low table, and upon this the two elves set out refreshments and light foods, mostly fruits but also little bits of deer skewered on small lances, sizzling and emitting the most delightful aroma. Legolas suddenly felt so hungry his insides ached and he sighed when his empty stomach contracted noisily.

"Time to finish with this infernal staircase," observed the dwarf and raised Legolas up.

They moved just as slowly, each step down just as agonising, but Legolas focused on the little pavilion and endured. They paused at the last step for a moment and Pippin brought him a cup, but then realised he couldn't let go of Gimli to take it. Abashed, the hobbit followed their halting progress, the Fellowship flanking them as they neared, and in time all arrived at the waiting bed. Legolas was lowered atop the mattress, a thousand hands bolstering his half-reclining body and stuffing pillows behind him, though with infinite care and only where Gimli indicated. Behind him Galadriel and a hand-maiden brought yet another low table and some small stools on which the others could sit. Seeing that all was in order and kissing Legolas' brow, she gathered her husband and left, shooing the other elves away, too.

"Water, please," Legolas held out his good hand to Pippin and smiled as the cup was handed over, gulping the contents in seconds and returning the goblet to be refilled twice more. Pippin served him gladly and Gimli did not object. Legolas felt better at once thanks to the restorative elixir in it and breathed a deep lungful which he exhaled as he relaxed into the cushions, eyes drifting shut a moment. He opened them and everyone exhaled smiling sighs of their own, sat down around him, and proceeded to have the picnic, passing him morsels of this or that which he ate with real gratitude.

They watched him avidly but covertly, eyes alighting and then swiftly buzzing off again like flies drawn to rotten things, and so it was hard for him to look back, knowing their sight fell time and again to his carefully wrapped hand, his charred skin and ragged mane, his misshapen ear. Yet they were all here, all well and strong, and that was what he had needed to know. It gave him an easier heart.

Even Boromir seemed comfortable in his skin for once and did not attempt to insert himself between Frodo and Sam. He talked easily with Aragorn, memories they shared of Gondor perhaps, but Legolas wasn't interested enough to focus on it. Mithrandir was silent, studying him; he chose to ignore that, too. Pippin was seated as close as he could get to the bed without climbing on it and Legolas was concerned about the young Hobbit's obvious and continuous distress. He should speak with Mithrandir or Frodo about it. Gimli was arguing with Sam about the spices in the venison. Merry was ribbing Frodo about some gaff he'd made as a youth which the Ring-bearer was staunchly denying. All in all, it was a restful and homey scene; under its influence, the agony incited by his journey dulled to a persistent but bearable throb and Legolas was lull into sleep.

  


He smelled it long before his hearing alerted him or his feet felt the tremors of its thudding steps upon the stone. He smelled it even before he was able to consciously identify the acrid, sulphurous miasma, registering instead a sharp and insistent chord of warning in the back of his scull. He was too young ever to have seen one; they were supposed to be utterly destroyed long ago in the War of Wrath when the Valar scoured Angband with the light of Aman. He'd heard of Durin's Bain, of course, and knew right away what was coming. The idea of it grew dimly in his mind, massive, dark and ominous proportions of shadow and flame.

Simultaneously he wanted to run from it and charge headlong to confront it before his friends could be harmed. He fired into the dense black void that swallowed up the distant end of the immense subterranean hall, an impenetrable absence of light that defeated even elvish sight and rendered the region indistinguishable from the caliginous atmosphere of Moria. It was there, lurking, watching them; he felt it and loosed three bolts in rapid succession. The arrows burst into flame, reduced to cinders before reaching their marks. Legolas' bow arm dropped lax at his side. It was coming and he could not stop it; others more powerful than he had tried.

It had survived the contest with Lothlorien's inestimable archers, Galadriel's Ring, and noble Celeborn's fierce courage. True, they had driven it back into the deeps of Moria, but the cost in lives and ruination was great. And before that, he wondered, did it contest against the Valar and escape the might of Aman? Who could say how long it had hid itself here? It had been defeated, yes, but was not dead as all had hoped. How false is hope, he thought, for it makes even the wise wilfully blind. He shouted a warning to his friends, stared in mounting disbelief as Mithrandir's spells were countered and broken. They all ran then. The demon cut them off at the bridge; was there another way out? Legolas scented clean air and told Aragorn; they turned toward another passage, but then he realised the wizard was not there and went back.

There stood Mithrandir barring the way, staff and sword held aloft in his hands, and gathering round him the strength and majesty of the Ainur outlined his form, revealing his real nature. Legolas saw him as a clean, bright spark, a living star of silver and white, pure and pulsing with life and light. Mighty words poured forth from him and smote the beast; it staggered and roared, unsheathed a hideous sword burning orange and red with the fuel of a thousand souls: those it had murdered through the Ages of its life. Its heat was unbearable, its stench ghastly; Legolas gagged as he came near and drew his long knife.

 _Just in case._ Elves had killed Balrogs in the First Age, he told himself, but it would not come to that. _Mithrandir is more than its match._

The creature advanced to challenge the wizard; Mithrandir spoke words of command, struck the stone bridge with the blunt base of his staff. An incandescent flash blinded Legolas for a second and when he could see anew the bridge was crumbling, the demon toppling down into the abyss where it belonged. He exhaled a breath as Mithrandir turned and offered him a wry smile on seeing the knife in his hands. Legolas felt sheepish and shrugged; it was a poor weapon, indeed, against such a creature. Then his chagrin turned to heart-stopping dread. A glint of fire-light on steely claws caught his eye and a scarlet lash whipped out, its many heads like snakes of living flame. They writhed through the air, flashing, snapping with crackling fury, and coiled round the wizard's legs, dragged him down.

"MIthrandir!"

The Balrog tugged slowly, pulling him to the edge, toying with its prey, its hideous, grinning maw leering as it grappled with the jutting slab of stone to which it clung, secured there by clawed foot and talon-tipped hand. Legolas lunged forward, grabbed for Mithrandir's arm, leaned out over the chasm, and swept his knife through the burning whip with all his strength. It was barely enough; he shouted as pain rocked through his arm and shoulder at the impact, watching in disbelief as the heat sizzled through his blade. A crazed, bright orange seam opened on the metal then erupted in flame and the better part of it broke away, disappearing down into the eternal dark, a small, glowing meteor quickly extinguished.

The wizard was up, yanking him back from the edge, yelling at him. The Balrog was bellowing its strange speech; the noise hurt him physically, like a lance to the chest, and Legolas nearly collapsed, felt the pressure of Mithrandir's hold disappear, heard screaming. Agony filled his very mind and robbed him of reason.

The whip caught him round the chest, caught him fast, caught hair and clothes afire. More screaming, frantic beating of hands about his head, a sickening stench assailed his nostrils, his vision blurred. He was on his knees. The Balrog heaved itself over the rim of broken stone and loomed above him, dug into his side with its clawed hand, lifted him as it would a mere twig, raised him to eye level so to inspect what gnat dared bite it. The eyes were cold, malevolent pits, infinite wells of hate and malice and looking into them Legolas felt his spirit being drawn, rent from his flesh a molecule at a time. He could not look away.

From some dim distance powerful words surrounded him; their puissance became his armour just as the beast unleashed its own damning spell and but for that timely shield would have stolen another elven soul for its foul, repugnant sabre. Its mouth gaped wide, breath hideous with death and devouring fangs, and roared more curses. Into that rank and cavernous maw Legolas thrust his left hand, his bow-hand, the hand which still gripped the remnant of his elvish blade. One jab, well placed, plunged the jagged shard of steel through the back of the creature's mouth and into its brain. Such was Legolas' intent at any rate but whether he truly pierced the controlling organ he could not say. Instinct had guided his arm and given his failing body strength.

A furnace blast of suffocating heat surrounded the hand and he felt it melting, the vile odour of seared skin and vaporised blood returned. The racket of the demon's death wail was deafening, or was that his own final, defiant cry of life? It seemed to go on forever, this moment of death, the two of them suspended in time for eternity while Legolas burned and the Balrog's mind disintegrated. The next instant it was over. He was thrown free and landed in a crumpled heap at the wizard's feet. Mithrandir had him by the arm then, half lifting him, half dragging him from the cave, shouting at him to move, to run.

He couldn't.

Another voice, deep and tolling, franticly cajoling, came cursing and coaxing to his ears. Large, rough hands took his other arm, the left one, the one which could no longer hold onto a bow and suddenly he was aware of what was causing his immense burden of unbearable burning agony. It was sharp enough to clear his mind for a moment and he realised Gimli was helping Mithrandir; they were bearing him out of the darkness amid a barrage of arrows, Boromir frantically firing to keep the beasts at bay. They were out. Light engulfed him and he heard himself coughing, tasted blood as it filled his mouth, vomited and gagged. He felt sun-warmed stone under his back and looked upon a mass of puffy white sailing through a clear blue sky. He shut his eyes as a cacophony of voices surrounded him. He heard fear and sorrow, shock and dismay, prayers uttered, orders issued, Pippin apologising over and over. Everything faded into silence.

Pain woke him to the grisly scene of Aragorn cleansing his wounds as Gimli held him fixed, flat on his back. More screaming. He struggled and grabbed tight to the flowing red beard; Gimli bellowed and bore down upon him almost until he could not draw breath and he stilled, blinked open his eyes to find the dwarf's face bent over him, blocking his view of what Aragorn was doing to his hand. No, it was Mithrandir tending his hand, muttering arcane words, while the Ranger did his best to patch up the gaping gashes in his side where the beast had gripped him. His head felt light and heavy at the same time, hot and crinkly but also cold, chillingly cold. There was a dark locus of raw anguish where his ear should be. He lost consciousness then as his bow-hand came alive with a thousand writhing tongues of flame.

  


"Be calm, Legolas. It is over and you are in Lothlorien. It's over, lad," Gimli soothed, hand carefully placed atop the heaving breast and the racing heart beneath it. "Open your eyes, open your eyes and look at me," he ordered quietly and had to repeat this three more times before the anguished blue irises became visible and focused on him. The elf's lips moved and formed his name in silence: Gimli. "Aye, I am here Legolas. We are in Lothlorien now and you've had another dream. Can ye sleep a bit now without dreaming, do you think?"

Legolas shuddered, reached for the thick mass of red chin hair, tried to make sense of things. Gimli was here. Here was Lothlorien. He fixed his mind on the sturdy knot work in the beard, felt the weight of dwarf's hand on his chest. "Gimli." He started counting heartbeats. They were too fast. "Too fast," he murmured.

"Sleep, Legolas," Gimli intoned in his deep, sonorous voice and then he began to sing a low, slow rumbling tune that sounded like water tumbling over rocks in a mountain stream, tuneless but somehow restful and comforting.

Legolas listened; he liked this kind of singing and wanted to learn how to do it. It masked the clamour of his pounding pulse and drowned out the awful yells of agonised suffering he'd heard just moments ago. Someone should help that person, he thought, and drifted eagerly into the promise of sleep free from dreams.

Everyone remained quiet a while as Gimli's song grew softer and softer and finally trailed away. Legolas lay still, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in more normal tempo.

"Can't you do anything for him?" demanded Pippin, voice wretched in guilty anger which he directed at the wizard.

"We're doing all we know to do," answered Aragorn, reaching out a hand to the Hobbit and patting his shoulder.

"He's improving," said Gandalf. "every day he is stronger that the previous one. Do not fear, Pippin, he will heal fully. Eventually."

"Nay, he won't!" cried the hobbit, snatching at his hair in his misery. "He won't and it's my fault. You've got to help him!" Pippin cast himself at Gandalf's feet and grabbed at the long grey robe.

"See here now," Sam began, going to pull Pippin away. "Don't be talking that way. It weren't your doing."

"Aye, none of us imagined he would do such a thing," consoled Mithrandir. "I was right next to him and couldn't stop him, Pippin. You mustn't blame yourself."

"He wouldn't want that," added Aragorn.

"He doesn't blame you, Pippin," said Gimli. "He did what he had to do, nothing more, and wouldn't want anyone trying to divert any of the glory from his bold action. If he gets wind that you're claiming responsibility, then he might be offended."

"What?" Pippin did not understand this was a joke and stared at the dwarf. "I'm not saying I told him to do it; I meant…"

"It's all right, Pippin," Boromir said gently and patted his shoulder. "We know what you mean. Gimli's trying to say Legolas bears you no ill-will, and neither do any of us."

"That's right," said Merry. "We weren't any of us quiet except Legolas."

"Aye, my pots and pan made a terrible clanking noise," reminded Sam.

"And Gollum was there, slinking about," revealed Frodo. "He might have wakened the Balrog on purpose to stop us."

Pippin looked to each face and read the truth there: they were all covering up for him. If he hadn't dropped that stone in the well, they'd have escaped unnoticed, and all of them thought so. He sighed and shook his head, turning back to Legolas, sprawled in an ungainly position, arms and legs askew, face pinched and brow furrowed, suffering even in sleep. He sat heavily and his head dropped low; he would never forgive himself. "He's not coming with us, is he?" he mumbled.

"Nay, Pip," said Merry, leaning forward to give his cousin's arm a squeeze. "He won't be ready to go on anytime soon."

"He's done his part and more," Boromir said, thinking to reassure the Hobbit. "He goes home a great hero."

"Of course he's a hero!" snapped the youngest Hobbit, shaking off Merry's comforting hand. "He was already a hero before we ever met him. That elf Haldir told me some things about him, and I know he wants to come with us and finish the Quest."

"What he wants is not in question," admonished Gandalf.

"Aye, Pippin, you're right and it will be hard on him when he has to face up to the truth," said Gimli softly, speaking of more than just the loss of the Quest. "The idea hasn't hit him yet, so keep your voice down and let him have a bit of peace for a few days more, if you don't mind."

At this, the hobbit went white as milk and glanced to make sure Legolas had not heard them. What would the elf do when they all left him behind? His eyes lit on the lumpy swath of white gauze and he shivered. What would he do if the hand could not be saved after all?

"Are you going to tell him?" asked Sam, the question meant for Gimli, but Gandalf answered.

"Not yet. I fear he will come to understand on his own soon enough. Gimli will be there; he's most likely to share whatever he's feeling about it with him."

The dwarf cleared his throat, passed a speculative glance round the group, and scowled into his beard. "While we're on the subject, and for those who might not have figured it out yet, I'll not be leaving his side."

A few heads nodded; they had all known this long before they ever reached Lorien. The courtship of elf and dwarf had provided many a light moment for the folk of Imladris and the Fellowship alike. A faint smile overtook the Ranger's features and he stood, carefully resettling Legolas into a position that would not leave his muscles cramped and stiff when he awakened, wondering over the strange and difficult course fate set for his friend.

It was obvious from the first and though Legolas insisted the dwarf was making a mockery of him on purpose, so to make him the butt of crude jokes among the High Elves, which he now was, Aragorn knew the truth was both much more complicated and ultimately the simplest problem to solve. The Wood Elf's fury over it was tremendous and while sometimes it was contrived, Aragorn was close enough to the elven prince to realise it was not all just bluff and bluster. Legolas was genuinely distressed and either could not or would not mend the situation. It all began in such a common-place manner, too, no indications of the true import of the moment, but there was no doubt now that instant irrevocably altered the woodland warrior's future, and Gimli's as well.

Aragorn was on the terrace smoking with Mithrandir, Gimli, and Pippin, the four of them sharing the silent camaraderie of aficionados of good pipe-weed in a good pipe. The broad veranda was peopled with many elves and as always there was music and singing; the day was bright and clear; all hearts were hopeful for Frodo was recovering from his ordeal with the Nazgûl. Gimli suddenly sat up, eyes bright, and pointed.

"Who's that?" he asked. "That's a Wood Elf or I'm a troll. What's one of Thranduil's minions doing here in the land of the High Elves? Lord Elrond best set a guard on his treasury!"

Gandalf, Aragorn, and Pippin looked to see. The man grinned while Mithrandir shouted a greeting as the elf unleashed the full force of his beatific smile upon them. That was the moment when the pipe fell from the dwarf's gaping mouth. There, striding through the grounds as if he owned the place, golden mane rippling in his wake, came Thranduil's son, the warrior prince of Greenwood.

"Legolas! Well met," said Mithrandir, standing to greet him.

"Mithrandir," the elf began, but by now he was crossing the flower beds bordering the patio and near enough to spy the dwarf seated in the shade of a column. Instead of ignoring the naugrim, he halted right in front of him and passed a close, scrutinising eye over him from the crown of his russet hair to the soles of his heavy marching boots. He stood there staring for several seconds in silence, an expression of indescribable confusion on his face, the dwarf, wide-eyed, staring back.

All music, speech, and singing ceased as everyone paused to enjoy the show, for it was rumoured the Wood Elves had no love for the stunted folk, particularly those of Erebor. Mithrandir had shared the entire story of what befell Thorin's company in Mirkwood. Yet, Legolas surprised everyone, including the dwarf. He bowed with perfect courtly grace and greeted Gimli politely.

"Suilad, Master Dwarf. Legolas of Greenwood, at your service." He righted himself and stood with hand over heart, waiting, the light of friendly challenge in his eyes.

Slowly Gimli rose and took a step forward, inadvertently treading on his pipe and crushing its stem. He paused and glanced down, scowling, but then did what he had no choice but to do or be revealed as uncouth and ignoble: returned the proper response. "Gimli, Gloín's son, at yours and your family's." He watched the elf's huge blue eyes grow even wider as a pained expression crossed his features.

"Nae, the Valar despise me," Legolas murmured.

"What was that?" demanded Gimli gruffly, ready to answer whatever insult this tall, willowy, utterly exquisite, being chose to make.

"I said Vairë, weaver of fates, must hate me," repeated Legolas ruefully, passing a wry grin to Aragorn and Mithrandir. Then he did something thoroughly unexpected to the folk of Imladris and rather astonishing to those who claimed friendship with him: he leaned low and bent forward, palms against his thighs, so to peer eye-to-eye with the dwarf. His hair cascaded forward, a curtain of gold between them. "I am Thranduilion," he whispered, and added, only half-joking, "but I'll thank you not to tell your father that."

"Mahal," said Gimli, voice bland and flat as he searched the azure gaze, seeing there amusement, a little bit of dread, and an inexplicably high level of hopeful excitement. Gimli's heart stumbled. Could it be possible? This was Thranduil's son, reason warned. Gimli knew he should immediately demand redress from this emissary of Mirkwood for the wrongs endured by his kinfolk, but the truth was he hadn't the heart for it. The truth of it was, Legolas was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and he did not want to do anything to discourage that spark of interest shining in those incredible gem-quality eyes.

Perhaps it was not Vairë at work that day, or if so she had a potent ally, for of a sudden a breeze blew up and wafted the elf's fall of silky hair against Gimli's cheek. He drew breath sharply, eyes darting to it, and without thinking reached out and carded through the thick mane. Legolas jolted upright and stepped back, leaving a long glistening filament behind trapped between the callused fingers of the dwarf's rugged hands.

The two of them stared at it, hanging there from his fingertips, drifting on the ambient air currents, twinkling in the sunshine, Legolas with lips parted and face flushed, Gimli much the same. What to do? Clearly, Legolas wanted to take that shimmering little bit of himself back. His long lethal fingers twitched ineffectually at his sides, but he didn't quite know how to manage it without making a scene. He did not want a scene, painfully aware of all the eyes trained upon him. Gimli just as obviously wanted to keep it; indeed, his hand made an aborted motion to tuck the hair into his breast pocket. He couldn't keep it, but how could he ever return it? What should he say? There was no protocol for such an event. A few elves snickered in the background; Mithrandir cleared his throat; elf and dwarf looked to him in imploring misery.

"Vairë is indeed inscrutable," he complained and deftly removed the hair from the dwarf's fingers. He was about to hand it to Legolas when he caught the woebegone look on Gimli's face, and somehow he just couldn't. With only a slight hesitation, the wizard stuffed the golden thread into the dwarf's tunic, simultaneously taking Legolas by the arm and drawing him toward the doorway. Both parties made startled and unintelligible exclamations, Gimli's exultant, Legolas' disturbed, and then it was over.

Except it wasn't over by a long shot, as Sam would say, Aragorn thought, and shared an uneasy look with Pippin. The jokes started at once.

"A new conquest for Legolas."

"Won't his Adar be pleased."

"Indeed, after Haldir this is clearly an improvement."

Gimli felt a low rumbling growl building in his chest and stumped over to favour them with his most terrifying glower. The high and mighty Noldorin folk fell silent and blinked back at him, suddenly aware they might have given offence to someone other than the lowly woodland prince. He snorted with satisfaction and returned to his chair, pausing to collect the remnants of his pipe as he did. "Bah! What bad luck. It'll be a chore to face the days ahead without the comfort of my old clay bowl."

"I've a spare, Gimli," offered Pippin and fished it out of his tobacco pouch. It was small, as befitted a young halfling, and even he could see the dwarf would set his beard afire if he used it.

"My thanks, Pippin, most generous of you," Gimli bowed, "but it'll take a longer stem to do the trick." From behind there was a rude blast of sputtering, ill-restrained laughter. Gimli turned and glowered, fairly sure he understood what was so funny.

"Perhaps we should find a more amenable place to share the morning," suggested Aragorn, rising.

"Excellent idea," agreed Gimli. He cast a fleeting glance over the collected Noldorin nobles on the porch. "Pippin, perhaps you could go in and inform Mithrandir we're moving to the gazebo in the rose garden, that he might join us when his business is completed."

"Ahhhh," someone breathed the lovelorn sigh of a romantic young maid, and the elves fell to assorted snorts and giggles.

"Don't worry, Master Dwarf, Wood Elves are the best trackers in Arda," assured another. "If he wants to find you, he will."

That set them off in gales of merriment and Gimli grew crimson in frustrated confusion, unclear as to whether their jest was on him, the archer, or both. Since the High Elves had been polite enough to him and his kin prior to the Wood Elf's arrival, he concluded the mirth was generated by the idea of Legolas and he as a couple. It galled him that they would so openly express their prejudice and he exploded.

"Oh, so you think a dwarf is not a fit companion for an elf, is that it? Such matters are not generally made topics of jest, no matter how benign, among my people. It is plain to see that Legolas, though from the lesser realm, has brought the better manners. It is strange to me to see High Elves make mockery of courtesy and grace," Gimli spared them all a withering glare expressive of his utmost contempt and stomped away, Pippin hastening after, but Aragorn hung back, saying he would wait for Mithrandir. No sooner than dwarf and Hobbit were beyond sight than the giggling and jesting started up again.

"What is so amusing, mellonen?" inquired a cool, quiet voice. All mirth turned to remorse and every laugh abruptly ceased. Elrond stood in the doorway, Mithrandir beside him, Legolas sandwiched between the two. The mighty Lord's censorious gaze swept the veranda and marked each person there. "Well?"

"Nothing, Hirên," murmured one contrite elf. "We meant no harm."

"Good," Elrond smiled thinly and nodded to Aragorn. "Legolas, I'll leave Aragorn to extend the hospitality of my House. Until the Council, pen neth." The Elf Lord took his leave, setting a comforting hand on Legolas' shoulder as he passed inside again, and only then did the Wood Elf's eyes cease tracking the departing dwarf.

"Aye, Hîren," he answered and did his best to ignore the leering looks of the assorted lords and ladies on the porch as he passed.

Together, Mithrandir, Legolas, and Aragorn marched away through the grounds, but it was not long before the warrior issued a grim sigh. Aragorn sent him a questioning look to which he shook his head and made a dismissive gesture with his hand, veering off into the gardens alone. Man and wizard watched him go, knowing his keen ears had probably picked up the annoying jokes and jibes that resumed behind them.

The next morning, Gimli awoke to see a new clay pipe on the bedside table, a note from the Wood Elf explaining his desire to replace the one his unexpected words had caused to be destroyed, in just those awkwardly formal words. Gimli was delighted. He showed off the pipe to everyone and smoked it as soon after breakfast as was decent. He went to the archery fields where Legolas was sparring and thanked him profusely, not realising Legolas had left the gift in his room, instead of presenting it publicly, to prevent anyone from knowing he had given it to the dwarf. His reply to Gimli's thanks was rather less than enthusiastic. He departed for the open fields far from the estate without finishing his exercises, declining the dwarf's invitation to dine that evening.

Thereafter, the teasing was virtually continuous, always behind Legolas' back, but always when he was just near enough to hear it. Nothing was said in front of Gimli, but he soon became aware of the trouble for Legolas' demeanour changed from warmly congenial that first day to icy avoidance thereafter. This would not have concerned Gimli much, he realised, had he not touched that silken mane, had he not retained that single golden strand in his keeping, had he not understood the significance of the fact that Legolas had not demanded it back. The elf prince did not like the notice his efforts to woo the dwarf had received, Gimli realised this plainly, but Legolas had, after all, initiated the chase, tempting the dwarf with genteel words and gifts, and therefore must wish to be pursued. _And caught._

Thus, his faith in the elf's interest grew. He courted Legolas with determined, dogged, understated persistence. Wherever the Wood Elf was, Gimli could be found near at hand. Legolas did his best to discourage him, conversing only in brief snatches of speech comprised of acerbic insults, but Gimli enjoyed the repartee, finding his future mate's wit quick and sharp. A person worthy of becoming his partner through life must spar as well with his tongue as he did with his weapons. Besides, the elf prince was a proud warrior and not to be easily won. It was right that he should test his chosen one's sincerity. This sort of prickly banter was part and parcel of dwarven courtship, and so Legolas rose in Gimli's esteem. His devotion encouraged the teasing and made things worse, but he did not seem to realise how difficult the situation was for the Wood Elf.

Gloín refused to believe his son's feelings were genuine, stating openly that it was all a ploy to humiliate the sylvan, a son's revenge for his father's imprisonment, and thus exactly what Thranduil deserved. His advice to Gimli, stated loudly in the crowded Hall of Fire, to have a 'right good time and bed him well' infuriated his son and made Legolas want to challenge the dwarf lord.

But he did not, instead inquiring of Mithrandir what would happen to Gimli if he really took an elf for a mate. The answer was banishment, disinheritance, and dishonour.

Gloín and his kinfolk left Imladris after the Council, the elder dwarf in complete denial of what was taking place; his clan in worried horror. Gimli, heir to much of the land under the Iron Mountains, was about to throw it all away by claiming the prince of the woods for his One.

As for Legolas, he felt terrible for having started the whole thing, never intending Gimli to suffer so severe a punishment as Mithrandir described. He gathered about him a grim and regal cloak of imperial silence, gliding through the grounds without acknowledging a single person unless absolutely necessary. Yet he did not vanish into the wooded dales and dells as he might have done. He spent the daylight hours on the archery fields, desperately trying to pretend he did not know the dwarf was always there observing, sniping at him and offering advice on how to improve his craft. Legolas refused to reply to the crude remarks of the High Elves about his stunted shadow. Still, the low opinion of the Noldorin folk hurt him and he was torn, too insecure of his worth as an individual to rebuke them, unwilling to demand of Gimli that he return the strand of gold.

In the end he always lashed out, pouring his anger and frustration over Gimli, the fiery temper exploding in a spectacularly voluble tantrum of Nandorin expletives and curses which ended with his demand for the dwarf to leave him alone. Despite his apparent wrath, he never challenged Gimli to single combat, which would have ended the problem, and he never insulted the dwarf's clan in order to force Gimli to issue the challenge, either. It all made a fabulous show for the folk of Imladris and relieved much of the strife bound up in the problem of the Ring Quest.

During the night Legolas hid in Aragorn's chambers, unable to face the gaping stares and whispers in the Hall of Fire, crouched in wounded and bitter silence in a shadowed corner of the balcony. The man did not have to prompt too much to incite a flood of anguished ranting, and he did his best to reassure Legolas while trying to get him to admit to the truth underlying his volatile reaction to Gimli's courting. Aragorn believed, and Mithrandir agreed, that if the prince could set aside his need for approval from the High Elves and listen to his heart, he would be rewarded.

"I was only trying to be pleasant," Legolas growled one night, "and everyone is saying I was deliberately trying to incite The Dwarf's interest. "

"I see." Aragorn nodded, noting that Legolas always referred to Gimli this way, as though conferring a title, as though there was only one dwarf in all Arda, capitol letters audibly present.

"I wanted them to know Wood Elves are not naugrim-hating hypocrites just because the Galadhrim are."

"Of course, that was obvious to all."

"Yes, and I wanted them to see I am just as cordial and open-minded as anyone else here."

"Open-minded enough to find a dwarf attractive?" Aragorn pressed.

"Ai! That is exactly what they are saying!" Legolas fumed. "I did not make any improper advances! It was not my doing that my hair ended up in his hands!"

"I know that," Aragorn said. He didn't believe for a minute Legolas intended Gimli to touch his hair, but he also believed he was showing it off on purpose, flirting a little. _Flirting shamelessly._

"I wanted to strangle Mithrandir! How could he? The Dwarf has a lock of my hair. Do you know what that means to a Wood Elf, Aragorn?"

"It is just a single strand, Legolas; it doesn't mean anything at all."

He did know, though, and on one hand felt bad for Legolas. Among the sylvans, gaining a lock of hair meant everything else had been gained, too. Few boasted about their conquests, but Haldir had and still did. And he'd kept the golden braid even when the affair ended, even when Legolas pleaded to have it back. So Legolas had burned the lock he had of Haldir's hair, which the March Warden had refused to receive from the prince, for doing so meant acknowledging the romance was over. Thranduil learned of the contention and recalled his son from the Golden Wood; things got ugly for a time between Lorien and Greenwood, but eventually the tension eased. So, Aragorn understood why Legolas was upset about the hair, but on the other hand…

"He should have returned it to me," Legolas seethed.

"He didn't want to call attention to it or embarrass Gimli."

"No, not Mithrandir, The Dwarf! He should have given it back, but he hasn't."

"Have you asked for it back?"

At this query Legolas flushed, reverted to his native tongue for more swearing, threw up his hands in exasperation, and stormed away. Aragorn smiled after him.

Finally, Elrond called Gimli aside and whatever was said between them resulted in the dwarf giving the woodland archer some much needed distance. And with this freedom, Legolas gravitated to Gimli's presence of his own accord and the exchange of barbs continued, though without the explosive eruptions of wrath. Under Elrond's stern and watchful eye, everyone in Imladris pretended not to notice, and this at last allowed Legolas to recover his dignity. Two weeks later, the Fellowship left the valley.

  


They had been twelve days in Lothlorien, according to Haldir. Through much of that time Legolas had languished in the torment of his injuries, lost to fevers and hallucinations wrought by sickness of body and mind both. Yet slowly reason had begun to resurface and he was able to consider all that had happened and ask questions of himself, though he seldom voiced them yet. The efficient care of his friends and the healing power of the land itself was restoring him, an inch at a time it seemed, and every inch was acutely felt.

He tried hard not to scream. He tried gripping tight to Gimli's hand, biting down on a thick, soft piece of leather strapping, looking elsewhere, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, counting leaves, praying, but nothing worked. He tried these things separately and in various combinations, but it never seemed to matter. There was a point of inflamed agony he could not withstand and then he broke every time, releasing unholy howls of pain and rage and terror. It was humiliating and he was ashamed of himself. Each time it was over, he swore a solemn vow not to give in again, to retain his dignity and refrain from begging, to hold his anguish in. He kept not a one of those promises. It did not help when Haldir told him he had been screaming since the day he'd brought him in and everyone was used to it by now.

Legolas did not remember the trip into Lorien and was disturbed by Haldir's words. Where had he found him? Hadn't he been with the Fellowship after leaving Moria? Why and how had the March Warden been there? Things to ask Gimli, yet Legolas had not found the wherewithal to do so yet.

The treatments were necessary; he knew this. He fought them, too, though he understood in the rational part of his mind that Aragorn and Mithrandir and Galadriel were only trying to heal him. It made no difference; they were hurting him. He saw them as they were and as they were not. Beside them he thought black spectres materialised, as if their shadows took life from his fear and grew, cruel and evil dopplegangers glowing dull, rusty red, grinning over his miserable helplessness. Now, his body kept count of the seconds so that he was always aware of when they would next need to change the dressings and inspect his hand again.

He began to grow agitated and anxious when the time was still hours away and struggled to maintain composure, but that too was a fruitless endeavour. He stood and paced to keep himself from fleeing into the woods. He sweated and felt great thirst but could not drink. He cajoled Gimli into going for walks amid the trees, but he was so weak he could never get far and they always found him. By the tenth day he routinely pleaded with Mithrandir not to touch his hand and wept when the wizard apologised and insisted he must. The deformation was great and the rejuvenation was barely able to keep abreast of putrefaction.

Stimulating the new muscles, stretching the tendons and sinews, coaxing delicate networks of newly generated blood vessels to life was excruciating. Between Galadriel's Ring and Mithrandir's muttering magic, Legolas often thought they were trying to peel the raw flesh off the charred bones of his fingers. It felt as bad as the burning itself. There were moments when he wished they would cut it off and be done with it, but he did not really want that. He wanted to draw his bow again, to be the finest of Greenwood's archers again. It was a hope so dear he feared to speak it, for he knew none of them thought it could become real.

He twitched and thrashed uneasily, the horrid treatment completed only bare minutes ago, fighting to retain sanity and endure the waves of excruciation crashing over him, worse than a thousand spears, for such pain would be swift and fatal and he could bear it for the short interval he must before Námo called. This, though, this sensation gave no relief and he fancied he was being devoured, eaten alive by the Balrog, or perhaps he'd been swallowed up and the thing was digesting him slowly, drawing off his vital energy as the spiders consumed the juices of their prey.

"But I defeated it," he croaked, voice raw from his shrieking. A shadow loomed near and he shrank away, heart thudding; he could not face it again. "Atu! Atu! Grauk ni krumbê skarnâ. Barasâ! Baras&circa!" (Father! Father! The Balrog wounded my left hand. The burning! The burning!) A light weight touched him, settled just over his heart, and a voice soothed him. It was not the demon; it was Gimli. Then he realised he had shouted those words aloud and groaned, embarrassed, and sealed his eyes tighter.

"Be at peace," commanded the dwarf. He gripped the elf's draw-hand tight, heart aflame to see him mastered by the agony. "It's over now."

"Kelun Kânô," whispered Legolas and heaved a deep breath. "Don't tell them."

"Tell them what? Who, Legolas?" Gimli gently touched his cheek.

"Fear not; he doesn't understand our tongue," soothed Haldir and a quiet thrill rippled through him when Legolas jumped. The blue irises sought his, abashed and pleading. "None shall hear of it from me, of course, but I fear you were quite vocal enough for elven ears," smiled Haldir. "Do not be concerned; all children call for their parents in time of dire dread and pain. You've been doing so ever since you arrived anyway."

Legolas' face went pale and his eyes became hard and cold. He raised himself suddenly on his uninjured elbow, disliking being so helpless before the March Warden. "Go away!"

"Aye, get out of here, you misbegotten orc-spawn!" shouted Gimli, comprehending now. "If I had my axe, I'd take you down to hobbit size! Get you gone or I'll report your callus abuse to the Lady!"

"I was only comforting him," insisted Haldir smoothly. "There is no need for these threats of violence. The Lady herself charged me to watch over him, thus I cannot shirk this duty."

"You're always hovering. To escape you, Legolas had to come down from the heights he most loves," thundered Gimli, unable to heed the woodland prince's please to stop. "And there's no kindness in your consolation, March Warden. At any rate, Legolas has his friends about him and there is no need for a guard to preserve him, save from your infernal interference. Be gone!"

"I do not take orders from…"

"Ego!" Legolas cried. "Pân pêd ho na thand. Ego." (Go! All he speaks is true. Go.)

Haldir's face flushed and he cut a black look at Gimli, but he wheeled suddenly and left without another sound. But he did not go far.

"I am going to have to challenge him," said Gimli, carefully helping Legolas sit up. The archer was only half-dressed, his torso bare, for his new skin was sensitive and could scarcely endure the touch of cloth, even the light silk of the Lady's best weavers. All his left side was scarlet and smooth, the skin thin looking and radiating heat as the body worked to renew itself. The bandaging required lessened every day and only the remnants of the whip's lashes remained unhealed and covered. His face, too was clothed in new flesh and the ruined ear nearly whole. The hair was slow to grow, though, and Gimli knew how much this hurt his elf. "I have restrained myself only out of respect for the Lady Galadriel, but there is only so much I can allow. The March Warden long ago exceeded that limit."

"Don't, for we have not spoken openly of what lies between us to any save our dear friends. Once Haldir knows I belong to you, he will leave me be," sighed Legolas, too tired to object as Gimli threw him an incredulous look and rearranged him, stuffing more pillows behind. Legolas lowered his eyes to the lumpy white limb resting in his lap and sent another sigh though his nose. "But I do want my Ada, Gimli. He should hear this from my lips first."

"Legolas, I am certain news must have reached him by now. You know I have been at your side every minute and the elves here are no duller than those in Imladris. Nor are their ears less sharp; they have heard both our voices expressing what we feel. Haldir surely has. Perhaps the King cannot come forth; there is ever trouble in Greenwood."

"Aye." Legolas let the reference to Haldir pass for he had more important matters to broach and peered at the dwarf keenly. "Adar will not be against the needs of my heart," he said. "What of your father? Must it be as Mithrandir told me?"

"Probably," Gimli shrugged and patted the archer's good hand. "Do not fret over it; though all the wealth of the Iron Mountains be mine, I would be miserable without you by my side. My father will learn to bear it or not; it is not for me to give him wisdom if he lacks it after all these long years."

"Kelun Kânô," murmured Legolas, smiling.

"What is that you called me?" demanded Gimli, pretending irritation though truly not displeased with the sound of it. "Some elvish insult, I guess. 'Stunted Stone Cutter' or some such demeaning term."

"You are a stunted stone cutter," laughed Legolas. "As well as a two-legged, red-bearded tunnelling mole and a gas-venting, axe-wielding Orc slayer, too."

"Oh ho! So says the scrawny Ent who couldn't herd a tree from the desert to the forest if the poor thing was parched and withered," chortled Gimli, rubbing his palms together. At last! His heart was glad, for if Legolas was well enough to think up insults then the pain must be lessened indeed.

"Ent! Why, you flatter me, Gimli."

"Of course I do, for it is too cruel to always call attention to the fact that you belong to one of the most primitive species on Arda: a wild, illiterate, uncouth Avarin Wood Elf still dwelling in trees and relying on stones for tools. Why, it is a wonder you know enough to go about clothed and covered, brief though your garb is to my eyes."

"You forgot to mention black magic." Legolas' eyes sparkled for Gimli's lingered hungrily over his half-clad form.

"I did not forget; I was being polite, Legolas, something you would comprehend if you were properly educated. I suppose those who rely on tricks, chicanery, and dark arts do not need to cultivate courtesy." They laughed together quietly, Legolas' one good hand clasped tight between both of Gimli's strong ones. "Tell me what it means," he whispered, brown eyes gleaming.

"It is my private name for you. Only those of my family will know this is how I call you. If others overhear, they will never reveal it out of respect for me. It means River Herald, for your Song is like water tumbling over stones in a restless river, yet the sound is soothing and restores me. You have called up the power of Ulmo with your voice and the Vala's strength washes over me and through me. Your Music is beautiful, Gimli," Legolas said, eager to see if this was pleasing to his mate or not.

"Kelun Kânô," mused the dwarf, smiling as the syllables rolled past his lips. "It almost has a dwarvish quality to it. I approve." He rubbed his hand over a long lean thigh and bent close to offer his mate the traditional greeting between couples among his people: a gentle nip on the nose. Legolas giggled lightly as the moustaches tickled him and responded with a traditional Wood Elf ear tweak. It was going to be fun to discover all the different places where the two of them were sensitive to stimulation. They sighed as one and their eyes met, both thinking the same thing. "That experience is far away," mourned Gimli, "but we will have it."

"Aye."

"You are better than you have been since the day it happened," Gimli announced, quite pleased. He thought he had not seen Legolas' eyes bright with hope for more than a second here or there, but now they shone. "I think it would be all right to take a short stroll."

"Good. Help me rise, for I long to be among these noble trees. Let us go down to the brook."

"Fine, but not the glade where the Lady's Mirror rests. Poor Sam was all done in by what it showed him and I've no desire to share the vision."

"Nor I!" They moved together slowly over the leafy mould, Gimli supporting Legolas as he had done every day since leaving the mines, and they settled on the bank of the merry little brook, Legolas nestled between Gimli's stout legs, leaning against the broad sturdy chest, dangling his feet in the stream. He sang a little bit, a sweet sounding tune, but there was still too much pain to sustain the effort and he fell silent.

They were quiet a long time, Gimli's arms carefully surrounding the elven prince, cupping the injured hand in his. The dwarf began to sing, at first so soft and low that only Legolas could hear it and even he felt it more than heard it. Gradually, the volume built until the glade filled with the potent sound of Gimli's love, a rugged, natural voice untrained and rough compared to elvish singers, but the Galadhrim wondered at this marvel: a naugrim whose Music brought healing and peace for one of their own. Yet for Haldir the sound was a great burden and his heart was heavy.

The March Warden kept his silent, sulking vigil nearby, cloaked in misery and rage. It was one thing to be refused by the elven prince, quite another to be shunned in favour of a dwarf, a low mortal, not even a man. He was a laughing stock, for all knew his history with Legolas. Now the prince demeaned and debased himself, consorting with a dwarf, though it was easy to see the Naugrim was using Legolas' pain and helplessness to advantage. If Gimli was not there, it would be Haldir to whom the archer would naturally turn for comfort and aid. Someone should send the dwarf to his Maker early and spare Legolas this embarrassing spectacle.

The dark thoughts in his heart were visible on his face, and from the shadows Aragorn watched and grew concerned. He had not meant to stalk the March Warden, but Legolas and Gimli were having a difficult enough time without interference from a previous lover. This was not the first time he'd come upon Haldir lurking, spying on the couple, and he had heard clearly Legolas' demand for him to go. The Ranger disengaged from the grey shade obscuring him and took silent pleasure in seeing Haldir start.

"Aragorn."

"Let it be, Haldir. Let them be."

"You over-reach yourself. It is not for you to instruct me in my duty."

"Nay, but it is my place to oversee the Fellowship. Even were it not, I am Legolas' friend and will not stand by idly whilst another plots against his very heart."

"Those are strong words," Haldir stood tall, face flushed in outrage. "You are more than a guest here and have the Lady's favour, but that does not give you right nor reason to accuse me so. I, too, am Legolas' friend. Indeed, the strength of my feelings is no secret here. How can you imply I would make plots to do him harm?"

"I tell you plainly: do not hide from this darkness growing in you, Haldir. It is evident to anyone looking upon your face; I saw it just now as you spied on them. Go to Galadriel and tell all that she may strengthen you through this trial."

"What impudence!" Haldir took a step toward the man as though he wished to assault him, but mastered himself. "It is Galadriel herself who assigned me this duty of watch over Legolas. If you disagree with her wisdom, I suggest you consult with her."

"I do not question the Lady's wisdom," Aragorn shook his head, "but I know what I saw in your eyes. I hoped to inspire you to self-awareness and save you the disgrace of being relieved of that duty you mention, for I will not hesitate…"

"Disgrace! You dare threaten me? Aragorn, for Arwen's sake I will not administer the chastisement you have rightly earned. As to my thoughts about this…" he waved a contemptuous hand in the direction of dwarf and elf, "…this farce, this warped parody of union…Do you know what that song he's singing means?"

"I do," Aragorn nodded. "It is none of your affair, Haldir, and Legolas is…"

"Legolas is wounded, maimed, disfigured, and despairing! He thinks _that_ is all he can hope to attract now." Haldir pointed at Gimli. "I intend to make him know it is not so. My feelings have not abated despite his reduced appeal and diminished vigour. His sacrifice is sufficient to overcome the pity his condition provokes and so I shall make him understand. How can the dwarf do that? What can he know of a sylvan warrior's heart?"

"Pity?" Aragorn was horrified. "Legolas does not want anything from you, Haldir, but that least of all!" He shook his head. "You do not understand him. Legolas will not appreciate your opinion and I hope for your sake you do not reveal it. At any rate, he knows what you see in him: someone high for you to bring low, someone to humiliate, relishing his hurt, revelling in the power to cause it. That is not love. You think he is still a callow youth, but Legolas has grown wise. He learns from his mistakes and you are not one he will repeat."

Haldir gave an incoherent cry of wrath and visibly shook. "I cannot remain here without shaming myself by spilling your blood," he growled and strode away.

Aragorn watched him go and heaved a heavy breath. He had risked much and could not be sure he'd got through to the March Warden. Behind him, the soft rumbling of Gimli's song continued and he sighed again, taking Haldir's place, leaning against the tree trunk to stand guard over the unlikely lovers, who had yet to share anything but hardship and pain.

  


They were gathered together in the fair, green tongue between Celebrant and Anduin, all the Fellowship together with the Lord and Lady of the land, sharing a feast at the parting of the company at last. Legolas and Gimli stood aside, bravely trying to be cheery though each one felt sick to see their friends continue the Quest without them. Legolas had given Gimli leave to go, but the dwarf would not hear of it. Mithrandir elected not to replace them, saying none could ever do so, and had spent a long night trying to console the elf prince, but his words were filled with undertones of menace and peril. What Legolas had done could not be undone, he'd said, and only time would show if good or ill would follow. Now Legolas felt new dread build in his heart but Mithrandir would not, or could, enlighten him further.

The boats were drawing away, Aragorn leading with Sam and Frodo, Boromir next with Merry, and the wizard last with Pippin. Legolas ran to the bank and raised his draw-hand. "Namarië, mellyn!" he cried. "Fare you well and safely and mayhap we will meet again before the end!" He saw Sam look back, offering a wave and a smile, and then the boats vanished in the mists. "Alas, they are gone, gone without us, Gimli."

"Aye, lad."

"Do not despair, Legolas," said Galadriel. "There will be much work for you here in the North and your father will be glad to have you at his side in the trials to come."

"Aye, I would see him," Legolas sighed and shook his head, "but I would finish what I started, too."

"You have finished it," asserted Haldir strongly. "Who could ask more of you than what you have sacrificed already? Is a hand not enough that you would give your life, too?"

"I have given nothing," snapped Legolas. "I have both my hands."

There was silence then, for the afflicted limb was still hidden, swathed in gauze and supported in a silken sling. With the wizard and the Ranger gone, only Galadriel and Gimli had seen the hand uncovered; even Legolas could not bear to look at it. None of the elves believed it would ever be more than a useless appendage for an archer once so skilled as Legolas, healing or no. Losing it would have been no greater hurt. The dwarf did not share this dark view and bristled as Legolas turned away and hurried along the path. He spared them all a furious glower, the Lady included, and ran after his beloved. He caught up easily, for the elf knew he would follow.

"They do not know you as I do," Gimli said. "Never have I met a more stubborn person. You will wield the bow again, Legolas." The elf halted on the path and gazed down at him, uncertainty and fear in his eyes.

"Will I?"

"Aye."

"That is what I would have, but will I be of any use with it when I do?"

"Of course! The hand can be trained and you have not forgot all the years of practice, have you?"

"Nay, but it is weak and fragile. How shall I make it strong again?"

"Time will take care of that and I will take care of what time cannot," promised Gimli. "You will see."

"What do you mean?"

"You will see, Legolas. Be patient; it takes persistence and skill to remove a gem stone intact from the rock surrounding it."

"I am not a gem, Gimli. I am…"

"Yes, you are." Gimli took the draw-hand and pulled the elf down to him, nipped at his nose. "You are my gem and there's no use arguing. No elf in all of Arda knows as much about gems as a dwarf."

"My Adar, perhaps." Legolas grinned as he straightened, unable to resist the argument.

"Jewels he knows, aye, I'll grant you that," nodded Gimli. "Uncut, unpolished gemstones are another matter."

"Oh, now I lack polish."

"You have always lacked polish, elf, but I'll give it to you; fear not."

"But I do fear it. What will you do, hammer at me with cutting tools?"

"There will be no cutting, but hammering, aye, that I may do," Gimli chuckled and ran a hand over the elf's firm backside. "There's naught wrong with the way you're shaped. Polishing, though, is definitely needed. I intend to rub you over thoroughly and often."

"When is this new treatment going to start?" asked Legolas, rifling his whole hand through the thick auburn tresses.

"Soon. We've need of a place to ourselves, though. I mean to ask the Lord and Lady leave to build us a little house beside the brook."

They began strolling along the path again as they talked of these plans and bickered amiably over design and construction materials, decor and architectural details. Behind them, Celeborn and Galadriel followed slowly, hearing all and smiling, their permission already granted.

In the days that followed, Gimli worked with industry to raise the humble house, a ponderous task for a dwarf accustomed to working with stone and cutting trees at need for timber and posts and beams. The Lady laid upon him restrictions against doing so, but he would never have laid axe against bole in the Golden Wood anyway. Gimli had learned much about trees since encountering Legolas, and even if he failed to understand the Music of green life, he understood his elf well enough. Legolas loved trees and for his sake Gimli had silently sworn never to cut another living tree as long as he breathed.

Stones he knew and in the rivers Celebrant and Nimrodel he found many of good size and weight for building. These he and Legolas collected and toted to their home site, the elf complaining of the number he had to carry, Gimli grunting that he did not need the aid of a frail woodland sprite if it was more than Legolas could manage. In this way, the archer's natural resilience slowly returned and he strengthened under the purposeful work and the promise held in its completion. One morning he dropped a stone for the third time and cursing, jerked his bow-hand from the sling, using it to help manage the slippery rock. There was pain, but not so much as he had feared and a new barrier was crossed. He never used the sling again.

Gimli praised him and presented a finely made glove of leather, soft inside and lined with moleskin but sturdy and durable outside. "Now you must cast off the thick bandages and set your fingers in this. The new skin must breathe, Legolas, and the fingers must move or the muscles will never develop properly."

"Nay, I do not want to look upon it, Gimli," Legolas clutched his hand to his heart protectively, eyes wide and pleading. "It was a vile mass of blood and bare bones when last I saw it. Do not make me look upon that again."

"I would not force such an agony upon you," assured Gimli. "Have you so little faith in Gandalf and Aragorn? And even if you do, what of the Lady's magic? The hand is scarred and wounded still, but it is a hand, whole and complete. Come now, look upon it and be reassured that your hopes are not in vain."

There was along pause as the elf wrestled with his terrors. If he removed that winding and saw the reality, could he go on? What would he do if he could never draw the bow again? He was not made for wielding a sword and could not change hands as Maedhros had done in the old tales. Two strong hands were required to draw the bow; there were no one-handed archers. But face it he must, now or some other day, and at least Gimli was with him this day. Trembling and hesitant, Legolas unwound the gauze and held his breath, but he did not shut his eyes or turn his head as he usually did when Galadriel dressed the hand. When the last of the wrapping fell away, he gasped aloud and gently rested the ruined hand atop the good one. It was ugly and scarred, even as Gimli had said, but the bones were not bare and the flesh was neither raw not torn.

Cautiously he flexed the fingers, crying out at the sharp burst of pain that shot up through his arm, but then he grew still. It was not unbearable and he blushed to have shouted so, flickering his eyes to Gimli. The dwarf only smiled encouragement and held out his huge hand. In it Legolas set the maimed palm, feeling tingling and warmth replace the throbbing agony. Then he smiled and drew Gimli into a tight embrace, both arms locked about the broad shoulders. "Kelun Kânô," he whispered.

Gimli could not speak at first, overwhelmed with emotion, and held his elf gently, soothing a wide hand down the slender back. Legolas believed now, where before he had merely hoped in fear because he could not bear to admit another option. After a time, he pulled Legolas back and presented the glove, easing it over the fragile fingers with care. It was a perfect fit and he made mental note to thank Galadriel, for she had made it herself and blessed it. When it was secured, he watched in satisfaction as the gloved fingers curled into a tight fist. "We are not done with the Quest, Legolas," he said soberly.

"No," agreed Legolas, opening the hand he had thought useless. Then he sprang up again, his heart rejoicing. "To work, Gimli! This house will not build itself!" He sang of his joy as he worked and Gimli joined him in both activities.

Above them in the trees, many elves looking on added their voices and Rumil came down to aid their labour at the house of river stone. Gimli was wary at first, but the archer was nothing like Haldir and made no claims on Legolas save those of friendship. Soon, others came down and added their hands to the task, bring with them tools and wood gleaned from fallen trees with which to finish the abode. Before two more days were done, all was complete save the thatching.

As for the March Warden, he was not pleased and decided he must make a final attempt to waken Legolas to reason and sense. Lord Celeborn himself had ordered him to leave Legolas be, but none had the right to order the course of the heart. His would have the elven prince. He presented himself after the two had taken their evening meal and were resting beside the bank of the bubbling brook, as was their wont. Together they looked up as he approached; together they scowled and murmured to one another.

"Enough, let me teach him his place once and for all," said the dwarf, making to rise.

Legolas stayed him, gloved hand on burly shoulder. "Nay, let him say what he must and I will answer." Together they waited as the tall Galadhel came near.

"I would speak with you, Legolas."

"I am listening."

"Alone."

"Nay!" growled Gimli.

"Why, don't you trust him?" sneered Haldir and but for Legolas' intervention would have learned the might of a dwarf's wrath to hear his mate defamed.

"Valar!" huffed Legolas, shoving the two of them away from each other. "Have you no sense at all, Haldir? Gimli and I are mates, there is no more to be said than that."

"You cannot be mates; there has been no binding union, not even an exchange of rings," answered the March Warden. "I beseech you now to cast him off. I am the one to whom you belong; you knew it once and I have never stopped knowing it. Come back to me and all will be forgiven. I will care for you properly, not force you to work when you are crippled and incapable."

"Crippled!" Gimli roared and again only love for Legolas kept him at bay. "You dare say so? He'll carve you to pieces if you dare to face him honourably."

"I would never challenge him to fight," spat Haldir. "It would be wrong and lead only to his humiliation."

"Then I challenge you, Haldir," Legolas hissed, finally beyond tolerance. "There is no humiliation in facing a worthy opponent and being bested, if that is how the contest ends for me, or for thee. Only a fool believes he has nothing new to learn of combat. Yet, I have not trained in many days and the challenge must be postponed until the Quest is over."

"The Quest?" Haldir did not understand and looked from one to the other. "We will be at war with the minions of Dol Guldur long before then."

"I do not doubt it," nodded Legolas, "but we will be at war elsewhere. Gimli and I are going to rejoin our friends in Minas Tirith. We will fight beside Frodo even as we promised."

Haldir gave a short bark of laughter, gazing again from one to the other in disbelief. "This is madness," said he, and levelled his sights on the dwarf. "You say you are his mate and agree with this folly?"

"Yes to both," said Gimli. "I do not call it folly to spite the Enemy and join those who oppose him."

"You let him go to his death most cooly, Master Dwarf!" seethed Haldir.

"He is not my father nor my lord to give me leave," retorted Legolas. "We are equals, Gimli and I, warriors and princes among our folk. That is what you fail to see, Haldir, and why your mind lies to you about the stirrings of your heart. It is not me you love, but the love of mastery that fills your thoughts. With you, I was always the lesser half of the pairing: weaker, foolish but more vulgar, and because I was young and knew no better, I believed your words.

"I thought I loved you, and even now I do not say I didn't. Much grief I endured for cause of that love, yet never was it sufficient to win your approval. Always there was something else about me that wasn't right and must be corrected. Always you must remind me that I was but a spoiled child; always you desired only to have Greenwood's prince grovel at your feet. But I understand now this kind of love does not create the kind of bond that lasts a life time. You would have me dependent upon you while Gimli would have me stand at his side. Gimli is the one who holds my heart and to him I will cleave."

"Indeed? I guess he has won you, then. So the word came to me from Imladris, that he claimed a lock of hair the first day you met," Haldir spat, furious to hear these words from the Wood Elf. "Yet remember this, Master Dwarf: I had him first!"

"Ah, that explains much. No wonder he's so skittish of intimacy," Gimli shook his head in feigned sorrow. "I guess he doesn't know there's pleasure to be had in the joining. Fear not; I'll teach him well and make him forget past miseries, and past lovers along with them."

Legolas laughed, unable to help himself, and above the lilting sound of elvish giggling could not be missed. "Ai, Gimli! That was cruel."

"You mock me!" shouted Haldir, trembling in outrage. "So be it. Have your dwarf and your braid, too!" He reached into his tunic and pulled out a long length of golden hair which he cast into the dirt at Legolas' feet. "Best keep that safe, Master Dwarf, as it's all the hair you'll ever get from his scorched and scarred scalp." With that bitter rejoinder Haldir left them, fleeing in high dudgeon from the laughter of the Galadhrim.

"Oh," Legolas whispered, eyeing the long braid as Gimli collected it up and reverently cleaned the dirt from it. He accepted it in his good hand and at the feel of it he sobbed, rubbing his fingers over the smooth contours of the knot work, and tears blurred his eyes. "Kelun Kânô," the words were a plea and he fell into the arms that opened in answer to his woe.

"It will grow back, Legolas," soothed Gimli.

"What if it does not?"

"Well, we've got this to remember it. And I'll cut off my beard to weave you a wig. We'll match then." It was such an absurd mental image that Legolas forgot his sorrow and laughed.

The next day the thatching was done and the Lord and Lady themselves furnished the little cottage with a fine feather bed. A great celebration was held in honour of the couples' bonding night. A feast was shared and songs were sung, tales were spun and wine consumed until the whole of Lothlorien was aglow with good cheer and joy. Gimli and Legolas retired to their house amid all this noise and commotion, assured their privacy would not be disturbed.

There was no question between them regarding the ordering of things; Haldir had taught Legolas to prefer the submissive role. Gimli silently vowed to enlighten his new mate to other pleasures in the days to come. For all his jokes about hammering and pounding, he was careful with Legolas, mindful of the tenderness and sensitivity of new skin, cautious where the ear was still growing back. They had seen one another naked numerous times on their journey from Imladris and while there were no surprises, yet it was thrilling to lay claim to all they had admired covertly before.

Legolas was enamoured of his dwarf's beard and played out at last the fantasy that had warmed his nights for many a day, wrapping the trailing length of the thick swath of red hair around his rigid erection and pumping, pleasuring himself. When Gimli took over, Legolas could not restrain his orgasm and came in shuddering cries. Seeing this, Gimli could wait no longer. Raising the lengthy bare legs to his shoulder, he took himself in hand and penetrated the elf with a forceful thrust. Thereafter, he drove relentlessly toward his climax and made sure he brought Legolas with him. They were content and Legolas was exhausted, still not wholly recovered from his injuries, and they lay in sleep together until dawn.

TBC


	2. Ripple Effect

#### "Few can foresee whither their road will lead them, till they come to its end." ~ Legolas (The Two Towers)   
"Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens." ~ Gimli (The Fellowship of the Ring)

## Ripple Effect

The ringing percussion of hammer on anvil filled the dell, rising above the murmur of the brook and the humming of insects, the rustle of golden leaves and the gilded harmony of elvish voices praising the morn. It was not a sound heard in Lothlorien previously. The forge was new, an efficient, squat, square construction of salvaged wood and river stones in the center of the small, bare patch of brown earth, one of few open spaces in the wood. The dell was a desolate oval devoid of trees, grass, ivy, or even pennywort. Celeborn said the spot had been scorched by the flames of the Balrog and the blood of innocents; it was ruined for green life ever more. Galadriel had tried to heal it but thus far the bitterness of the creature's malice remained in the dirt and nothing would grow, though the place was open to the sun, a small eyot amid the trees, a result of that same burning. No Mallorn would take root, though many saplings had been planted and tended.

This association with his nemesis was an uncomfortable truth for Legolas, but Gimli was not perturbed, grunting in satisfaction when he surveyed the site for the first time, nodding, hands on hips, then rubbing at his beard reflectively. He stamped the ground. "Good earth here," he said. His face turned upward and he squinted into the bright noonday light. "Plenty of fresh air, too, and the circumference sufficient to protect the trees from sparks and heat. I will make my forge here." With that he turned about, motioning Legolas along, though he knew well enough the archer was right on his heels, eager to quit the place.

"Why do you want to build a forge in Lorien?" Legolas asked. "We do not have time for this; the Fellowship may be in dire need of our aid, Gimli."

"We cannot go anywhere until you are ready." Gimli stopped and looked up into the confused blue eyes, reached for the gloved hand. Legolas let him hold it, trusting he would never be more than gentle. "Are you ready, Legolas?"

The elf's face fell and his eyes took refuge behind the long-lashed lids, only a glimmer of sapphire visible as he surveyed the path beneath his feet. "No," he admitted, and though he wanted to turn away, he knew Gimli would not let him and waited to hear what wisdom the Dwarf would share today.

"Then, we must find fitting work while you heal and grow strong again. For me, it is work in metals and weapons and armour that I find most appropriate in these times. So, I must construct a forge to do that. And what of you? What is the best work for you to be doing just now?"

Legolas raised his head, a wry smile there, eyes dancing in mischief. "I should be up in the branches singing with my kinsman, of course. Rumil says I have grown dour and gruff since I became your mate, and it is many a long year since I composed verse and made music."

"Auch!" the Dwarf scoffed, knowing his elf was but jesting and playing along to cheer him. "I love your voice, but in that regard you need no practice. Where is that bow Lord Celeborn gave you?" He knew where it was: back in their house by the brook. Legolas was embarrassed to carry the child's training bow in public.

"Fine," Legolas sighed dejectedly. "I will work on the bow as long as I need not do so in this dell which the demon ruined."

"Agreed, but you will soon change your mind. Dwarven folk have their own kind of healing. Earth and stone, metal and gems, these we know how to repair and mend. Soon there will be no reminder of that creature here." Gimli said nothing about the fire and heat his furnace would generate, knowing proximity to it would exacerbate Legolas' terror of flames.

"But then we must be separated," complained Legolas, struggling not to reach under his hooded cape to pester the stubby spikes of hair trying to grow. It was unbearably itchy, but Galadriel assured him this was a good sign. He eyed Gimli askance and found on the rugged features such a glowing look of love he blushed and grinned, reaching for the thick beard instead, laced his fingers within it. "Oh, you do love me."

"Love you? Legolas, you are air to breathe, more vitally sustaining than food and drink; without you my life would quickly wither away," murmured Gimli, caressing the hand in his hair. "I know it is the same for you, for you have just told me you cannot bear to be parted anymore than I can. Yet, we must learn to do so. We are warriors, but warriors of different kind. It is likely when we go to battle that we will not remain side by side. Neither can afford an error due to worry for the other."

"Aye, you are right," sighed Legolas, eyes bright. "We have time to have lunch at the house before you begin building, though. Yes?" He tugged on the beard playfully and rifled the gloved hand through the woolly thatch of chest hair protruding through the open laces of the Dwarf's shirt.

"We just might at that," Gimli agreed and they sauntered away, Legolas advancing a few feet ahead in order to make an alluring display of his supple arse as he sashayed along the path. Gimli growled, eager to reach the house, yet both were disappointed to find Lord Celeborn waiting there for them, seated on the small veranda before the door.

"Suilad, Hiren," Legolas said, bowing to hide the irritated expression on his face, but Celeborn laughed.

"Ah, I am hailed but not well met," he joked, enjoying the increased colour in both countenances turned toward him. "Be assured, I am only here to give news of the Fellowship. Mithrandir has managed to communicate with Galadriel; they have reached the Falls at Rauros unhindered."

"Elgerio Tawar!" Legolas exclaimed and turned to Gimli. "Our friends persevere, Meleth." He bent low and squeezed the Dwarf tight, forgetting both his and Gimli's dignity before Celeborn the Wise.

The Lords of Erebor and the Golden Wood eyed one another over the elven prince's shoulder, Celeborn pleased and amused, Gimli a touch embarrassed and yet proud. Such demonstrative, physical displays of affection in public were not acceptable in Dwarven culture. Celeborn folded his arms over his chest, raised his brows in silent challenge. Gimli grumbled deep in his chest and then gave in, wrapping his arms around the lithe archer and squeezing back. He heard a whispered 'Le melin' and growled back the same in dwarvish. He noted with relief that Celeborn retreated without further fuss and bother.

Gimli herded his lanky mate inside and promptly yanked the tight leggings down round Legolas' knees. The Wood Elf gave a yelp and toppled over, arse up, and slowly worked the garment off. He shuddered, balancing on hands and knees invitingly and spread his thighs wide.

"Take me, Kelun Kânô.Take me now," he pleaded. Rough hands gripped his buttocks and kneaded the firm flesh, then one reached between his legs and squeezed his sac. Legolas squealed and wriggled, ready for penetration. He could hear Gimli's ragged breath, the trailing ends of the Dwarf's beard just brushing against his skin, but the hands withdrew. "Ai!"

"Take off the rest of your clothes," Gimli ordered, moving away and taking a seat on a chair by the empty hearth. He removed his axes and belts and opened his pants, withdrew his rapidly filling cock, and sat thus, legs spread, hands on the arms of the chair, watching as Legolas shimmied out of his silk shirt and sat on the floor at his feet. Legolas was so well trained to be subservient he remained there, poised in provocative pose, bent knees slowly opening and closing to expose the rigid, ruddy cock jutting up form his nearly hairless crotch, scarlet nipples proudly pointed, eyes fixed on the dark maroon penis protruding from Gimli's gaping trousers, lips parted and almost salivating. It was a tempting option, but the dwarf enjoyed the foreplay almost as much as the consummation. "Touch yourself," he demanded huskily and Legolas moaned, shuddering, nearly ready to come at the words alone.

Slowly, achingly slow, the unhurt hand moved, avoiding the healing cuts and scars, slipping over the lean flat belly and then up, lightly brushing over one nipple and then the other. Legolas' eyes drifted shut as he sighed, circling each in turn, pinching the tender tips. He moaned again, hips shifted, seeking a comfortable pose. Finally he tucked his heels under his arse, leaned back on his elbow, presenting his erection boldly, and looked to see what the Dwarf thought of this pose.

"You like being watched," Gimli growled, "almost as much as I enjoy watching."

"Aye," Legolas flashed a smile as he exhaled the word, sent his hand back down, a sinuous, seductive, seeking caress across his abdomen again, avoiding his cock, and then racing back to suddenly fondle the good ear, following its contours and rubbing the red-stained point. It was so good he almost forgot Gimli was there. A long, low sigh exited his lungs and his cock twitched, but he would not touch it. "Come and help me, meleth."

"Nay, you seem to be doing fine."

"Want your hands on me," Legolas whispered, opening burning eyes to lock with the dwarf's hungering stare. He caught his breath and froze; Gimli looked ready to pounce, yet restrained himself, remained utterly still, hands gripping tight to the chair arms as though he might rip them off in his excitement.

"Stroke yourself, Legolas. You know you want to."

"Want you to."

"I want to watch you do it."

"As you wish."

Again Legolas shivered, the wave rippling through his body in jerky convulsions, and he shut his eyes, swallowed, broke out in sweat, and finally moved his hand lower. Encircling his shaft lightly, he made a tentative pass over the excited flesh and then gasped. He gripped harder, worked the hand slowly up and down, moaned his mate's name. Gradually he increased the pace, pushing up into every pulse, thrusting into his hand, the sound of his fist slapping softly against his scrotum an erotic pulse. He wished Gimli would come to him, bite at his nipples, pinch at his balls, kiss him, fuck him.

"Kelun Kânô," he cried, voice wavering in agonised anticipation; he was almost ready. "Don't want to; don't make me."

"Of course you want to. Let go, Legolas." Gimli's voice was barely intelligible, eager to see the elf lose control and give in to the sensation, see the quick spurt of creamy seed. He licked his lips.

"Nay!" The word was wrenched from Legolas' larynx, a ragged and desperate note as he fought to delay the inevitable. "Together; want us together when…"

"I want to see it. Please, Beloved," Gimli crooned, scooting to the edge of the chair, cock pitched forward and aimed at the archer squirming on the floor. The slender hand moved faster, the slicked head over which it passed secreting shining beads of clear fluid, the scent heady and erotic. "Come for me, Legolas. Now!"

Legolas obeyed, issuing a loud cry, erupting a fountain of silver, collapsing as he continued to pump the organ, spasms of pleasure racing through muscles and nerves. He fell still atop his discarded clothes, only his chest heaving to inhale enough air to steady his pounding heart, oblivious to all as the sensation settled in and burrowed into his belly; he wanted more. "Hervenn," he moaned, spreading his legs wide, lifting them up to expose the small, red pucker.

The summons was answered instantly, but instead of claiming Legolas there on the floor Gimli lifted him upright, supported his staggering steps to the bedroom, and pushed him onto the mattress. He proceeded to repeat every touch, duplicating every caress Legolas had made, tongue and teeth, lips and hands dancing over excited flesh, murmuring grunts of delight as he sampled all the spots that set Legolas afire. The archer's quiet cries of appreciation were not loud enough, not desperate enough and so he shoved a broad forefinger into the tight anus. Now the elf began pleading in earnest and working his hips to increase the penetration. Gimli fisted the rejuvenating cock and stroked, carefully moved the finger inside, eyes bright as he watched Legolas respond in frenzied efforts to increase the stimulation.

"Nay, bauglir, bauglir!" (tormentor) he cried, shaking in his awakened need, cock straining under the friction, buttocks clenching every time the finger threatened to retreat. "Kelun Kânô!"

He was nearly weeping and wailed aloud when all contact vanished, but he raised his head to see his mate hastily tossing aside tunic, shirt, trousers, boots clattering across the floor as he kicked them off. Pulse fast enough to make him dizzy, Legolas rolled over on his stomach and offered up his body, exhaling a long sigh as the weight of the dwarf depressed the mattress. There was a tender caress down his back for warning and then the mighty shaft breached his defences and filled him, a powerful slap and the sensation of soft, damp hair against his buttocks, the weighty balls pressed tight against him.

Gimli took his time, relishing every advance and retreat, every shiver and moan his potent thrusts wrung from the elf. The tight heat was intoxicating and he soon lost all rational comprehension of his actions, riding the pliant body beneath him, each adjusting to the other's slightest motion instinctively, achieving a rhythm that both soothed and excited. Gimli came the first time with a long bellowing shout of mastery, but his pace barely faltered. He poured the energy of his ecstasy into his movement, at the same time reaching under for the archer's cock, pinching down tight on the ducts and preventing ejaculation. This excited Legolas to nearly unbearable heights. He was begging and pleading long before he was ready to come, writhing so vigourously that Gimli pulled out and turned him over, kneeled above him, smiling, and met blue eyes gleaming with avaricious appetite.

"Ai, Gimli, do not stop now!"

For answer, Gimli lifted the long legs to his shoulders and plunged back inside. At once Legolas reached between them to stroke himself, but Gimli wanted him to come without need for that aid and repeatedly batted the eager hand away. It did no good and so he stopped again, pulled out and clambered atop his mate, straddling his chest. He took hold of the healthy hand, pinned it to the mattress, leaning over the archer's face, dripping cock so close he could feel Legolas' breath feather-light across the excited glans. He pushed against the parted lips and was granted entrance. A roar of delight resounded through the little house as Legolas sucked and Gimli eagerly fucked the wet mouth and its gifted, mobile tongue. He spilled the second time down the Wood Elf's gulping throat and still was not done.

The long organ remained full and firm when Gimli pulled it from the sucking lips and sat for a moment to regain his wind. He grinned, surveying the aroused elf beside him, Legolas exerting all his will to keep from masturbating, fingers playing in the auburn pelt on the dwarf's broad chest, rubbing and pinching at the small brown nipples barely visible there. Legolas smiled back.

"Kiss me," he demanded and Gimli did, claiming his mouth with a devouring tongue, rugged hands petting and caressing his body.

They parted when Gimli was ready to continue and once more he decided to reposition his mate, leaving the bed and taking Legolas by the cock as soon as he was on his feet. He led him this way into the kitchen and bent him over the table there, entering him at once. He fucked Legolas with short hard invasions, hands gripping the angular hips, balls slapping the back of his thighs, the archer's slender shaft rubbing against the polished wooden surface as he rocked in and out. This time they came together, which was what Legolas craved above all else, and the mutual orgasm was easy for the dwarf, beautifully melding them body and soul, while for the elf an explosion of light and colour and transcendent joy sealed their spirits. They separated slowly and Gimli had to help Legolas walk back to the bedroom, deposited his boneless frame upon the mussed and semen-scented counterpane.

"That was good," he announced with satisfaction and rummaged around in a dresser drawer for his pipe as Legolas exhaled a snort of a laugh. Gimli stuffed the bowl with relish and lit it, inhaling the pungent fumes slowly, holding them in before exhaling, settled on the bed beside his mate. He gently stroked the mangled hair, which Legolas groomed with meticulous care and worry. They shared silent communion of hearts, pulse and breathing becoming synchronous as Legolas let his eyelids come half way down.

"It is so good with you," he sighed, contented and happy.

"Aye, we are well matched," Gimli chuckled and poked a pert red nipple with the wet mouth piece of his pipe, grinned when it made Legolas jump and the blue eyes popped open wide to stare at the hard little nub. "Wait until you are fully healed; I've a thing or two to teach you."

"What do you mean?" Legolas shifted up on an elbow, making sure the nipple brushed Gimli's side.

"Just what I said. What you don't know about sex would fill volumes," the dwarf opined with an indulgent smile, "but you are young yet and have had little experience."

"You have had much experience?" Legolas had not really thought about this before and wasn't certain if it bothered him or not. "With dwarves?"

"Of course with dwarves," laughed Gimli. "I have only lived among my own people before now."

"Yes, I see." Legolas fell silent and a thousand doubts crowded into his head he had never imagined before. What dwarves had Gimli pleased this way? Males or females or both? How could he find dwarves attractive and yet be drawn to a form so alien as an elf? Of course, he found Gimli attractive, but that was different. _Or is it?_ After all, he had never found dwarves appealing before Gimli. "Is it different with me?" He meant was it better, but could not find means to ask.

"Beloved fool," Gimli sighed, palm softly caressing the cheek marred by fire. "After what we have just shared, you need never fret over comparisons. You are my One; I am your beloved Hervenn. Nothing else is relevant, past lovers least of all, yes?" He nipped the Wood Elf's nose lovingly.

"Aye, you are right as always," Legolas laughed sheepishly and kissed him back. They remained quiet a time and then Gimli began to sing, seeing that Legolas was weary, for his injuries were not completely healed and he tired easily yet.

As he watched, the elven prince drifted into that strange state of suspended consciousness that was not exactly sleep nor anything like the energetic wakefulness common among the First-born. Gimli stayed beside him, smoking and exalting in his happy fate to have gained so magnificent a mate.

The hammer had paused in its stentorious work long ago as Gimli relived these memories, smiling, face turned toward the path, almost willing Legolas to come striding along it seeking him, for the archer could not bear for them to be parted long. Minutes passed in amiable suspense, quiet after the clamour of his work but not silent. He could hear elves singing high in the limbs, though they kept clear of this place. He could hear the small normal sounds of woodland places, birds and small animals going about their lives, so strangely removed from the universe he knew and yet a part of it. He smirked; that was Legolas talking, for he often expounded on the many tiers and levels of being, using the lesser creatures of Arda as examples. The wind fanned his long beard and sent a small swarm of orange sparks flying up from the glowing embers, drawing his eye.

Gimli inhaled the acrid air of the forge and set the hammer down, chuckling at his own expense, for now it was he consumed with the urge to go running home to Legolas. _Home._ The word resonated in his heart and gave him the sweetest wrenching twinge he had ever known. He laughed aloud; who would ever have imagined it, a Dwarf calling a forest full of elves home? Yet it was so and he discovered he was not lonesome for his own people, for wherever Legolas was Gimli would be content beside him. He set about stifling the fires and straightening his tools, carefully stowing the pieces he was working on in his rucksack. When all was in order, he left the clearing, matching his step to a bold and saucy song he'd learned among the miners when he was a young dwarf. High above, the elves giggled merrily and added their voices, mimicking the harsh sounds of the Dwarven tongue perfectly without knowing the exact meaning, though the nature of the ditty was obvious to anyone. And lo! There was Legolas running along the path to meet him, and the sight stole the wind from his lungs.

Legolas sat beside the brook, knees drawn up against his body, arms crossed atop them, the burned cheek resting against his forearm as he watched the Dwarf work. The small bow was beside him, discarded for the moment, his golden hair drifting free in the faint breeze, his hood cast back revealing hair and brow damp with sweat for the effort to teach his hand to work was hard and painful. He pulled and pulled and drew the teaching toy, chagrined that he could not achieve full draw on so paltry a device. He was forced to pause and rest, to let the fire in his fingers dwindle to a dull throb before starting anew. As long as Gimli was in the forge, Legolas worked on his exercises, and when the discomfort became to great he left the house and came here to rest, resting his sight upon the Dwarf's work. His need for his mate at such times easily outweighed his dread of the place and Gimli had been right; the sense of evil was fading away and a few weeds were beginning to encroach upon the scorched ground.

More truthfully, Legolas had less interest in the results of all the hammering than in the Dwarf labouring over the anvil. Gimli plied his craft stripped to the waist, his glorious hair carefully bound and covered beneath a leather cap, his magnificent beard braided tight in a single plait that was leather wrapped also. It was a strange fashion, but after the first time he'd watched Legolas no longer had to feel his heart leap into his throat every time the fire roared up the flew or huge clouds of steam belched from the doorway. The protection was ample and Gimli suffered not so much as a blister, so skilled was his technique, and not a single curl on his hairy torso was singed.

He was pounding with such deliberate and solemn effort, each blow a powerful note of making, of crafting, of creating, and he hummed a deep, growling melody packed with strength and the might of his ancestors, the magic of Durin's Folk, which is nothing less than the wisdom and strength of Aulë, the same essence that built the very bones of Arda. Of such was Gimli's soul, and such he poured into the work beneath his hands. The hammer lifted high above his head and came down heavily; his muscles rippled and flexed beneath his skin, the auburn fur dark with perspiration, the smooth patches of skin glistening richly. Legolas shifted and crossed his legs beneath him, wishing the day was done and they could go home together.

"Tell me; what are you making?" He had asked before; he asked almost every day; everyday he got the same answer:

"Armour."

"So it is," Legolas sighed loudly, but even this was too soft for the Dwarf to hear under the crash of mallet on steel.

He knew he would get no more information and perhaps there was none to receive. Gimli was simply working; this is what he could do in the time between preparing to fight and fighting: craft armour. What kind and for whom was probably irrelevant. _Lord Celeborn perhaps, in thanks for the shelter of Lorien during my recovery._ Regardless, it was fitting work appropriate to the day. The pounding paused. A brown eye peered out at Legolas from beneath a furrowed, furry brow, the expression some variation of expectation and looming censure. Legolas sighed dramatically and stood, unfolding his lanky limbs and snatching up the bow in the same motion. "Fine," he mumbled and proceeded with the exercises anew.

Gimli watched him covertly, angling the hammer so it struck a bit of scrap he kept at hand for just such moments, so to prevent marring his creation while concentrating on the elf. He knew the weapon was not so light and fragile as it looked, for he had tried it himself and was amazed at the force required to bend the bow. Elven children used such for a toy? A complaint to Lord Celeborn that Legolas would become discouraged was met with laughter and a congenial slap on the back, so he had left it alone. Now the elven prince put all his determination and all his will into the effort, defying pain and the trembling of developing muscles to pull that bow to the full. Gimli stopped, hammer in mid-fall, as a shout of both triumph and misery escaped his mate. "You did it!" he shouted, laughing, and threw down the hammer, dancing a jig beside the forge.

"So I did," Legolas gasped, eyes wide in wonder, and then they filled with joy and renewed confidence. "I did, Gimli, did you see?"

"Aye, but I only caught the end of it. Do it again, Legolas, and show me the proper way." He came out from the forge and stood beside the archer. "Wait, now why do you set your foot that way? I see you do so each time."

"To give me a steady aim, a strong stance. My war bow is no light weight and I can shoot to the limit of my sight, when I am properly positioned and my mind is clear," Legolas stated, obviously proud and now no longer afraid that it would never be possible again. He lifted the small weapon and inhaled deeply, raising, aiming, drawing all in one fluid motion just as he was trained to do, without thought, though at this moment it required his utmost concentration to achieve it. He pulled; the string bit into the tender new skin of the healing fingers even through the leather glove. He ignored the pain, pulled steady and true, and the bow bent in creaking complaint to the limit of the wood's strength. Legolas held the stance and exhaled slowly, and lo! with a loud crack the wood splintered and the bow broke in his hands. "Ai!" he cried, shaking his hurt hand and then hugging it to him as he paced about, an absurdly comical stilted strutting reminiscent of a wading bird in the marsh, save it was not funny at all.

"Let me see!" Gimli was frantic as he tried to get in front of the bobbing, weaving elf, and finally got hold of him. Carefully he removed the protecting arm and Legolas stood shaking as he inspected the glove. There was no blood. They both stared at the creased and scored leather at the tips of the fingers, then met each other's eyes, and together burst into grateful and delighted whoops of laughter. "No harm done!" roared Gimli in appreciation. "I think you're ready for a better bow, melethen."

"Indeed, he is," said a voice behind them, deep and regal, and the pair turned to find Celeborn there, a bow in his hands, and Haldir just behind him. Both Galadhrim had eyes shining with pride as they viewed Legolas. "Well done, kinsman," praised the Lord of the land. "Here is a weapon worthy of your new strength." He held out the bow and Legolas took it with a little half bow of respect.

"It was my own," announced Haldir, "in my first year of training. Please, do not break it, Legolas, for it is a treasured keepsake. My Adar made it for me, you see."

"Ai! Perhaps I should not practice with it, Haldir," Legolas held it out, disappointed but unwilling to risk something so meaningful to the March Warden, uneasy about what obligation this might engender in Haldir's mind..

"I trust you," Haldir pushed it back into Legolas' hands. "And with your permission," he turned to Gimli and bowed.

"If Legolas wishes it, I have no objections," Gimli smiled at the tall warrior who was no longer so haughty and scornful as he once had been.

"Aye, nay, I mean that…," Legolas stammered. Haldir had been making efforts to mend things between them and while that seemed right on the surface, he worried what the March Warden might be feeling in the deep recesses of his heart.

"Legolas, please accept the bow as a gift, freely given. Consider it a token of my remorse and a symbol of friendship," Haldir said and bowed, hand over his heart. "I have erred in my actions toward you and Gimli. Permit me to atone in this small way."

"So be it, yet I would not keep that which is such a precious memento from you Adar." Legolas blushed briefly as he met Haldir's gaze. "I thank you for the use of the bow and will return it as soon as I graduate to a true war bow."

"You are most welcome. I want to apologise for my unkind words to you, Legolas," the March Warden said quietly.

"And what of your sadistic pleasure over his suffering?" inserted Gimli. "Do you regret that also?"

There was a long silence as Haldir turned and stared at the Dwarf his eyes a swirl with a mixture of fury and remorse, for he knew he had felt that and it shamed him now. The fact that Legolas did not immediately express any mollifying words stung, too. He had devised a rational excuse for his cruelty and brought it forth. "I do regret that, Gimli Gloín's son," he bowed anew, "and am thankful Frodo and his Burden are gone, for I fear I was much affected. I felt the darkness clutching at my heart and did not know how to fight it."

"You believe your behaviour is the fault of the Ring near you?" Legolas asked, incredulous, his blue eyes sharp as they pierced the March Warden. Haldir surely remembered their stormy romance and its cataclysmic ending long years before the Quest.

Haldir felt his cheeks grow warm but nodded assent. "I don't know what else could cause me to say those things, to be so heartless."

"Oh, I do," Gimli informed, "jealousy, pride, envy, and a covetous, spiteful nature." With that he returned to his forge, lifted the hammer, and looked from one archer to the other, seeing amusement on his elf's face, disgruntled mortification on Haldir's.

"I will prove to you that I have changed," announced the March Warden testily and departed in haste.

"Ai, Gimli, you know him too well," Legolas laughed quietly.

"One must be direct with him, or he hangs about never catching the hint that we want to be alone," shrugged Gimli.

"What are you making, Kelun Kânô, and do not say 'Armour'."

"Then I cannot answer you," grinned the Dwarf. He set aside the mallet and took up a cloth, rubbed fiercely, burnishing the metal beneath his hands, aware of the blue eyes intently upon him.

"Have you not worked long enough? We could go for a walk amid the trees."

Gimli stopped and stood straight, drew back his shoulders and then stretched with a luxurious groan, flexing and flaunting his solid masculine bulk. "A tempting offer, I don't deny it, but I am in a hurry to finish this and there is light still for craft and artistry. We have all the night for play, Meleth," Gimli chuckled at the disappointed near-pout that overtook his elf's features. "You have not yet tried that new bow even once."

"Fine," Legolas grumbled and stood, and exerted himself to his limit. The wood did not even bend and the string itself was only pulled a little. He held the pose until he could not, forcing himself to breathe until he gasped aloud and relaxed. "There," he puffed, "I tried it once." He sat again upon the springy grass.

"Excellent," praised Gimli. "At the rate you are improving, I will scarcely be finished before you are ready."

"I know what you are making."

"As well you should, since I have told you everyday that I am making armour."

"It is armour for me." Legolas had only actually come to guess this in the very instant he spoke the thought.

"Aye," admitted Gimli, smiling at the elf.

"We will go from here soon and find our friends, wherever they may be."

"We will."

"Minas Tirith do you think, or Mordor?"

"Frodo was not bound for Gondor, though Boromir would have it so and Aragorn was keen to go there, too."

"So we go to the Dark Lands."

"I see no other course," sighed Gimli, and came to sit beside his mate again. "I am wondering if we will find them at all."

"I have been thinking the same. If we cannot, what are we to do? If we cannot aid the Quest, ought we to go back to our homes and fight beside our kin?"

"I understand now Lord Elrond's words as we departed his lands," grumbled Gimli. "We are no less willing, yet we may be no use to our friends. It is galling and I would not have it end thus."

"Nor I." Legolas glanced at the dwarf. "Do you think I was wrong to battle that creature?"

"What?"

"Mithrandir seemed to hint at it."

"Nay, you were ill and in pain an did not hear correctly; he never meant that. I think he felt guilty that you were hurt on his behalf, Legolas, and wished he might have prevented it," Gimli assured. They ruminated in silence on the best course and finally the Dwarf slapped his thighs and shook his head. "We're daft! We must ask the counsel of the wise and here we are in the realm of Celeborn, called the Wise among your folk, and the Lady of Light, of whom the legends say much of her power and far sight."

"True enough, yet they will only say I am not ready for battle and encourage us to go to our people, or to stay here."

"Perhaps, but they will hear us," said Gimli, "and give what advice they may. We will be no worse for the asking."

He returned to the forge and worked the bellows to raise the fire anew, pleased to know Legolas was following his every move with hungry eyes. He took up his hammer and set to pounding and did not scold when Legolas resumed his seat, legs drawn up against his chest, arms crossed atop them, cheek resting on his forearm, and simply watched.

Gimli studied the elf moving about the house, moving with more deliberate concentration and less easy grace than usual; almost as tentative and cautious as when he'd first risen from his sickbed, and with a like tendency to sudden, clumsy motions, accidentally bumping the side of table, the back of a chair. He was on the brink of exhaustion. The day's practice had been rigourous but Legolas had made tremendous progress since the breakthrough of breaking the bow. He was nearly ready for a war bow and had apprenticed himself to a famous Lorien bowyer to craft a weapon worthy of the battles ahead. Legolas was an accomplished bowyer in his own right, but he said that none could make a better, more powerful weapon than Kwingatanô., who had crafted his Grandfather's bow long ages ago in Beleriand.

After the instructions from the Master Bowyer, Legolas came to Duban Khuzd Dithen (the Little Dwarf Dale) and worked with Haldir's bow. He could now fire into targets the elves set for him high in the limbs above and had acquired a small but admiring and infinitely polite audience. Whenever he hit the mark, a soft chorus of peculiar whirring, zinging noises sounded and Gimli came to understand the Galadhrim were plucking their strung bows to laud him. The effect on Legolas' self-esteem was wondrous and he began to carry himself with that erect, austere posture the Dwarf had once found simultaneously so offensive and so alluring. Now, it was a sign of his inimitable determination and tenacity. The elven prince, Gimli knew, wanted to prove that not only would he heal, not only would he draw the bow again, but he would be an even better archer than before.

Yet it was so much more than that. Legolas had begun to have dark and frightening dreams when he lapsed into reverie, dreams of the Fellowship and the hardships the little group faced. He was convinced they were visions, warnings that he and Gimli must not delay but make all haste possible to rejoin their comrades. Something terrible was going to happen, or had already happened, and this spurred the elf to strident measures, sparing himself no ease as he forced his body to ignore pain and exhaustion, pushing himself to readiness, to mastery of his craft once more.

The Dwarf did not know what to make of it; his mate no longer complained about Galadriel's ointments, exercises, soaking the hand in herb baths, or the hours long meditation required before his re-training sessions. He followed her every suggestion religiously. This was surely a good thing, but the cause was disturbing. When he broached the subject of Legolas' new imperative, the Lady listened seriously and did not refute the archer's beliefs. Instead she accelerated his regime and gave him a set of the little green willow wands that he carried everywhere. Gimli had to admire this ingenious device, for the resilient branch was bent into a 'U' shape and Legolas was supposed to grasp the open ends within his injured hand and squeeze them together, then release; squeeze and release, squeeze and release over and over.

The developing muscles of his hand were strengthening by the minute, Gimli decided, and frowned. He had responded to all this harried activity by matching the elf's sense of urgency. The armour was nearly done and he reasoned two more days would see it complete. He had been stewing over something since Legolas' dreams began and had come to a decision at last. Before they left, he wanted a look in Galadriel's Mirror. If there was need for their haste, surely it would be showed to him. If not, then they might take Lord Celeborn's advice and head for Gondor by the most direct route. There the Dark Lord would strike and there they would be sorely needed, whether they found their friends or not. A subdued thump and muttered oath drew his attention back to the elf; Legolas was stooped over rubbing his shin, having bumped it against the low table before the sofa. His gloved hand gripped and relaxed, gripped and relaxed. Gimli grinned and pointed at it.

 

 

"I was just thinking you'll be able to crush rock soon."

"Aye," Legolas stood straight and tossed his head, instinctively reached to run his good hand, his draw hand, through his hair, but remembered at the last second and both the hand and the smile fell. "I can feel the skin and sinews stretching and growing. Hurts a bit, but nothing compared to the first days, of course."

Gimli was beside him at once, took the hand within his, kissed it. "The mane will grow back; it is just going to take a while. Look how long you've been alive and it only reached your middle back in all that time."

"True," Legolas tried to smile and sighed. If it took that long he might want to accept Gimli's offer of the wig. He eyed his mate speculatively; how old did the Dwarf think he was?

"Come, you are weary. Sit and I will prepare the meal." Gimli led him to the small sofa of woven willow and eased the elf onto down filled cushions, noticing the pale, drawn cheeks and drooping eyes. "You overdid it today." He bit back the rest of his reprimand, for nothing could incite Legolas to rage quicker than being chastised for his folly whilst he was suffering for it already. Instead, Gimli dragged a small foot stool near and propped the long slender feet atop it, easing off the soft leather boots as he did.

He stood and stared down at the graceful appendages; they were certainly beautiful and almost unbearably erotic, a fact Gimli had kept secret thus far. He was not sure what Legolas would make of his attraction to the elegant arches, smooth and white, the long pink toes capped with almost translucent peach-coloured nails, perfectly trimmed. His eyes popped wide when one foot suddenly lifted and poked him in the belly.

"What about that supper?" snickered Legolas.

"Aye, of course, sit still and rest," Gimli stammered and stalked away to the pantry. He assembled a cold dinner of fruit, bread, and roasted venison from the deer Legolas had killed in the early dawn.

It was his first kill since the battle and a great triumph which he announced in absolute silence, strutting inside and heaving the carcass onto the butchering table for Gimli to clean and prepare, sauntering away with his head high. They had been eating mainly fish, rabbit, and duck for meat since Legolas was unable to hunt anything larger with the training bow and Gimli's people didn't, raising domestic stock for slaughter. The elf ate little but the Dwarf had begun to tire of the unchangeable fare, not that he complained aloud. It was not an option to accept a kill from one of the Lorien elves, not since Legolas was able to begin training with a real bow. Tradition among the sylvan folk held that an elf would become a full adult member of his House only when he could make his own kill as an archer. Legolas clearly considered himself Master of their house. Gimli smiled at that, for it was all show. Legolas deferred to him in everything important.

The Dwarf did all the cooking, too, for Legolas could not bear to be near fire, not even the tame flame in the hearth, not even the single tongue of gold and white crowning a candle's head. He had awakened to this fear as he'd awakened from the sickness that had claimed his mind and body for so many days after the battle in Moria. Gimli had been concerned at first, seeing him balk a metre from the fire ring, raise a shielding arm to ward off torch-light, or stand rigid, eyes locked in mesmerised terror upon a lamp, breathing so fast he could barely remain upright. Since the building of the forge, his fears had lessened and though he stayed well back of it, he endured the heat of the furnace without flinching every time a spark flew free. That was progress, indeed. Legolas was able to bring his mate cool water from the spring, though he would not actually step inside the forge, offering a tall glass of ale through the open doorway, arm extended, body pitched forward, nose wrinkled at the strong metallic smells.

Which memory made Gimli smile as he carried the tray into the little parlour. "I just recalled: Rumil and I have been experimenting. Not sure how it may taste, but the brew will surely be potent. Will you try some?"

"Is it mead or ale?" Legolas asked eagerly. He liked ale, if it was properly brewed, almost as much as wine. The Woodsmen of his father's realm made a concoction that was heady, fragrant, and so intoxicating it was reserved for state holidays and celebrations after victory in battle. Mead he found too sweet.

"Ale, of course!" announced Gimli, frowning. "What ever gave you the notion I'd waste time on mead?"

"You said Rumil assisted you," said the elf. "He does not look like sort to appreciate ale."

"Neither do you, for that matter," laughed Gimli but the sound cut off in an instant as a shadow darkened the prince's fair countenance.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I said," grumbled Gimli, eyes twinkling. "Mahal! Why does it bother you so much that others find you fair and graceful as a doe?"

"A _WHAT_?" Legolas shot out of the seat, ready to avenge this insult to his masculinity but instead found himself astounded. "Who says this? Name them and I will be glad to…" Gimli was roaring with laughter, pointing at him, doubling over, tears wetting the creased corners of his eyes. He stared, mouth ajar, and then a chuckle escaped and he sat down. "All right, stop that and just bring me the ale to try," he said sheepishly.

"Oh, beloved, you are a sight when you get riled and no lie, that!" Gimli announced as the laughter wound down. He left the house, shaking his head, still guffawing and chortling, heading for the spring in which the barrels were plunged almost to their rims. It was a fine walk and he paused to pluck a few flowers here and there, inhaling the scent as he ambled along. When he reached the spring, he tucked the flowers through the braids of his beard and hefted one of the barrels, shouldering it with ease it. He sang as he retraced his steps: "…Of mighty Kings in Nargothrond and Gondolin, who now beyond the Western Seas have passed away: The world was fair in Durin's Day."

As his hands were occupied steadying the keg, he shoved open the door with the toe of his boot and then nearly dropped the ale. There kneeling in front of his elf was Haldir, firmly massaging one of the prince's bare feet. Legolas' head was thrown back against the sofa and an expression of exquisite relaxation adorned his features. Both elves looked up as the door opened, smiling benignly and just as Legolas parted his lips to speak an incoherent bellow erupted from the dwarf's throat. The barrel hit the ground with a ponderous thud that shook the rafters, or perhaps it was Gimli who rattled the very foundations as he charged, small throwing axe in hand.

It was a good thing elves have quick reflexes, for Haldir barely escaped a ruinous maiming by diving through the open window, rolling upright already on the run, dashing to the trunk of the nearest tree, and scampering away into the branches with his heart in his throat, shrieking like a child.

"Coward! Dirty Thief! Come back and face me, betrayer! False-friend!" Gimli was beside himself, raging beneath the boughs as he watched the March Warden's rapid progress so far beyond his reach.

Legolas caught up with him and stared, astounded. "Gimli! What is it? Beloved, be at peace, he was not hurting me." Tentatively he touched the burly arm, the biceps bulging and the fists clenched tight. When the Dwarf rounded on him, eyes ablaze, pointing the axe at him, he stepped back abruptly.

"It cannot go unchallenged," Gimli growled and shook the axe. "I'm within my rights! He'll answer to me now and if he escapes alive it is due only to my devotion to the Lady."

"Why? What has angered you so? I swear to you, he meant no harm to me. He was trying to be kind, easing the pain in my back by applying pressure to the foot. It is an ancient elvish technique for healing, nothing more."

"You do not understand," sputtered Gimli. "He was touching your _foot_! He was holding your foot in his _hands_! Pressing it and petting it!"

"Petting it?" Legolas repeated, light beginning to disperse the dark as his eyes grew huge. "Ai! Is this a private intimacy between Dwarvish couples, caressing the feet?"

"It is for some; it is for me," Gimli answered, his wrath dispelled by Legolas' genuine surprise. The Dwarf frowned and grunted, settled the axe back into his belt. "I don't suppose Haldir would know that."

"Nay," Legolas smiled and set his good hand on Gimli's shoulder. "Why did you not tell me?"

"Wasn't sure how you'd react," shrugged Gimli, studying the elf's face. There was a definite glint in the blue irises and his scowl slowly transformed into a feral grin. "I could demonstrate."

"I am eager for the lesson," Legolas said. "Ai, now admit you are a sight when you're riled, Beloved! Haldir will not come near us again." He tucked his gloved hand under his mate's thickly muscled arm and led him to the house. "I worked very hard today and wish to be worshipped."

"Worship was not what I had in mind," snickered Gimli, tweaking the firm flesh of the elf's bottom.

"There are many forms of adoration," corrected Legolas, burying his fingers in the thick auburn locks and rubbing the scalp beneath, grinning as Gimli groaned and moved his head this way and that, enjoying the sensation. "Anointing the object of one's devotion with various oils and perfumes is one."

"Eh? Was Haldir using oils, then?" Gimli demanded, fury rekindling as he peered up at the elf's dreamy features. It was a look he knew well and treasured and his heart gave a mighty leap. He pulled Legolas down to him and kissed him so soundly he had to hold onto him for a bit when they were finished.

"No," Legolas panted, smiling happily, "Haldir was not using anything slick or slippery or pleasantly scented. From you, however, I expect all three and a very thorough application of your gifted hands, among other things."

They reached the doorway, blocked open by the barrel, which had oozed a little of its contents upon the stone threshold, and Gimli released the elf to retrieve it, hefting it onto his shoulders with ease. He deposited it in the corner and turned to his elf, who was stripping down quickly. "What other things?"

"Oh, tongue and teeth, perhaps," suggested Legolas with a shiver and a whispered, "I hope." He pulled his loose shirt over his head in a fluid sweep of cloth and carelessly tossed it on the table. "Beard and hair, naturally, fingers, hands," he was busy with his leggings and flaunted his growing erection boldly as he peeled them off and threw them aside, stood with hands on hips, gave a delicious little pivot forward. "And for more intensive worship that involves the inner heart, the core of one's adulation, there is that truly magnificent instrument that defines dwarven male anatomy."

"Seen a lot of examples of male dwarven anatomy, have you?" queried Gimli, filling his eyes with the sight before him, restraining himself admirably. He made no move to disrobe in kind.

"No, one is amply sufficient," grinned Legolas. He rocked forward again in deliberate temptation and when Gimli held out his hand hastened to him, let the Dwarf take his elbow and guide him to the willow-wand settee. He sat with legs spread wide, having forgotten at the moment about learning the joys of foot massage in anticipation of having a more sensitive appendage attended. The dwarf did not touch him.

"Where's all this soothing oil and lotion and scented ointment?" he demanded, though he knew well enough since he was the one taking care of fading scars and the healing hand. He was going to do just as Legolas required: worship the elf. Then archer defeated him, raising his naked leg and shoving him in the shoulder with his long pale toes.

"There, in the basket by the pantry," he breathed, pulse racing and skin flushed rosy. "Ai!" he yelped and jumped as a huge hand snatched his foot and the toes disappeared within the bearded mouth. "Ohhhhh," he cooed as the Dwarf's slick tongue tasted between each digit and the lips sucked them. He squirmed in his seat and grabbed hold of his rigid cock and started pumping. "Ai Gimli," he sighed and smiled as the brown eyes caught his then shifted to his busy hand. At once the foot was dropped and Gimli halted the pleasing stimulation.

"No," he ordered gruffly and kissed the palm. "All this is mine to adore. Did you not say so?"

"Aye," Legolas' eyes shone with love and desire. "But I don't know if I can last…"

"Let me worship you as I deem best," he whispered and surveyed his excited mate. He had not forgot how weary Legolas was and his heart softened his ardour momentarily, realising the little settee was not exactly comfortable for the long-legged archer. "Come, it is high time you were treated in princely fashion." He raised Legolas up and ushered him into the bedroom, not objecting in the least when the good hand snatched up the ends of his beard and used it to polish the lengthy column of turgid flesh jutting from Legolas crotch. Yet the archer collapsed in boneless abandon, sprawled over the mattress in limp and helpless appeal, the firm organ flagging somewhat and Gimli understood that frantic effort with his chin hair. Legolas simply hadn't the energy to sustain his arousal and sighed, dragging an arm over his eyes.

"Ai, Gimli," he sighed in embarrassed misery. "I fear I am not worth bothering with just now."

"Nonsense!" admonished the Dwarf gently. "What a lie that is. Did I not say I meant to worship my beloved? There is nothing you need do save lie there and rest. If your strength is renewed during my supplications, all the better, but I would be as well pleased to see you sleep. Truly sleep, not that reverie, as you call it, where those dreams disturb you. I want you to drift off into the deep, silent abyss of real slumber such as I enjoy regularly."

The arm lifted and an incredulous eye peered out. "Gimli, silent does not describe your state of rest."

"Ha!" Gimli barked, grinning and shaking his head, wagging a warning finger at his mate. He disappeared to retrieve the oils and set about teaching Legolas the art of erotic foot massage. Of course, he paid Legolas back for that reference to his snoring by tickling the soles of the slender feet mercilessly until Legolas was gasping for breath between his peals of laughter. Then Gimli eased into a more intimate style of pressure and palpation.

The process was thoroughly invigorating for him and in no time he was hard as the iron for which his people's Realm was known. But Legolas, though exhaling numerous sighs and soft moans, relaxing as the massage continued, did not become aroused. Instead, he fell asleep even as Gimli had hoped, his eyelids lowering to nearly cover all the glittering blue irises. The Dwarf, while not exactly comfortable in his current state of erect rigidity, was nonetheless content to wait. He watched Legolas sleeping, moved beyond words at the beauty in the supine form despite the fading reminders of the brutal battle. He sang softly, hand smoothing the stubbornly slow-growing hair over and over.

In the deep of the night the Wood Elf wakened to find Gimli beside him, naked and ready, and the Dwarf took him with gentler mastery than usual, for which Legolas found himself unaccountably shaken in the best of ways, his heart and spirit recognising the purity of the adoration his mate gave, the indomitable strength of the bond between them, the infinite love this Naugrim held for him, infinite in every respect but the one most obvious. He found tears on his cheeks and could not explain them when Gimli, alarmed, questioned him, then soothed and comforted him. Legolas curled all round his beloved and lapsed into sleep again, fingers deeply buried in the auburn beard.

The knocking on the door was subdued yet somehow conveyed a degree of insistence that he responded to instinctively, cautiously trying to disentangle himself from Legolas without waking the elf. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out, for the archer gripped tighter to the hair within his hands and growled, vision sharpening up in displeasure as he looked to Gimli.

"Nay, let us stay a time here. There is nothing pressing we need do this day, Hervenn. Stay beside me now," Legolas pleaded.

Before Gimli could answer the knocking cam again, louder, and Legolas rolled from the bed, cursing a vile oath as he grabbed his leggings and shoved his legs into them. He held them shut, determined not to get up and resume the regular order of the dawning day, muttering for Gimli to stay there since he was coming back to bed and it had better be important. He shuffled out to the front room, pushing back his tangled hair, and reached the offending door upon which yet another staccato rapping proceeded. "All right! Give me time to walk into the room before you…" he yanked open the portal to find Lord Celeborn there, regally imposing in his elegant robes and immaculate presentation. "Ai, Hiren, forgive me," Legolas began, but the mighty Elf Lord silenced him, a kindly smile on his face as he ran his gaze up and then down his half-clad kinsman.

"No need for apologies, Legolas. Indeed, I am sorry I had to disturb you, for I know how strenuously you have been working to ready yourself. And the cause," he added seriously, searching the blue eyes. At once the woodland prince became solemn, but met his gaze with stoic resolve, and Celeborn knew he understood and was prepared to do all in his power to salvage the vita mission. Gimli stomped into the room, fully dressed, and joined his mare.

"Then Legolas' dreams were visions," he said bitterly.

"Yes. Galadriel has consulted the Mirror. More than that, she has received a fleeting glimpse of a message from Mithrandir. Without it she was reluctant to trust the reed of the Oracle, for it is capricious and many have come to ill chasing after the events it reveals, often bringing about worse horrors than those we thought to prevent."

"What has happened?" Legolas hated to ask for he'd had so many terrible dreams of late. He grew pale when the mighty Lord did not answer him and sucked in a shocked breath, reaching for Gimli. "Everything?"

"So Galadriel fears," sighed Celeborn, setting a hand on the bare shoulder as he surveyed the bright pink skin over newly healer wounds, the glove covering the worst of all. "We could send others, yet I feel the two of you may have a better chance of success in what lies ahead."

"Aye, mayhap that is true, but if what Legolas has seen is fact, then it will take more than one elf and one Dwarf, no matter how stout their hearts may be, to free our friends and take back the Ring," Gimli complained. "Can you not at least ask for any who might wish to volunteer to aid us? I will send to my folks as well; I know some will rally to my battle cry."

"I agree with you, Gimli, yet the situation has become more difficult. Let us sit together in council and discuss our options," Celeborn advised. "Galadriel and I will receive you for the morning meal as soon as you have had time to bathe and dress. Make haste for every moment the net closes tighter around us!" With this dire exhortation the elf Lord left them.

In silence Elf and Dwarf watched him stride away. "Kelun Kânô, is that armour finished?"

"Aye, near enough. Come, we'd best get ready for this meeting. I fear there is worse news the Lord of Lorien is loath to tell us."

"Ai, Gimli! Do you think our people are endangered? Has war come to Erebor while we whiled away the days in bonded bliss?"

"It has not all been blissful," Gimli reminded, taking the gloved hand in his. He met Legolas' troubled gaze. "No doubt you are right, though. Come, no use standing here fretting; we've decisions to make."

They went in and Legolas was subdued and pensive, taking particular care with his appearance, donning the more formal clothes Galadriel had ordered made for him; garb befitting a prince among his people. He braided the hair that could be plaited and carefully smoothed the wayward strands still clinging to his patchy scalp, but left off the hooded cloak he normally wore to hide the disfigurement. Today he would display it for what it was: testimony to his dedication to the Fellowship, its noble cause, and his brave friends. He belted on his long knife and strapped on his quiver of arrows, picked up his bow in his gloved hand and looked to Gimli for approval.

The Dwarf gave a firm nod of affirmation, the light of love and pride in his warm, wise eyes.He, too, was dressed in his finest, battle gear though it was, with axes polished and gleaming and the mail beneath his shirt twinkling in the morning sun. His auburn hair and beard were neatly coifed, braided and bound, and he set his helmet upon his head and his shield at his back. then he took hold of Legolas' other hand. They walked thus through avenues of Mallorn trees to the abode of the Lord and Lady, and on nearly all the branches above them the Galadhrim watched their approach in solemn silence. They mounted the stairs at a steady pace, each recalling when last they had descended them and that first meeting of the Fellowship after the battle in Khazad-Dûm. At the top the March Warden greeted them with respectful courtesy and announced them by their titles.

The Lord and Lady welcomed them and together the four retreated to an inner room screened from view on all sides. Haldir and his brothers formed a silent guard behind the Lord of the Iron Hills and the Prince of Greenwood, standing tall as they were seated on low cushioned stools. It was clear they meant to be a part of whatever transpired and though silent, their vote to accompany the unlikely heroes was evident. Galadriel sighed as she looked from one to other, each of her guards resolute and staunchly determined to resist all her pleas to remain at home where they would be sorely needed before many more days were past.

"I see it is useless to implore you," she said quietly and the trio smiled.

"Sit, then, and join our discussion," offered Legolas, grateful for this show of support.

"I do not know what more there is to say to us," Gimli said before anyone else could speak. "We have known from the start that our folk would not be spared in this fight and nothing we can do will prevent it. There is no need to tell us battles and bloodshed at home, for Legolas has dreamed it and I am quite capable of imagining it. This changes nothing. I speak for us both: we will go to the aid or our friends and attempt to set Frodo back on his course."

"Aye," Legolas agreed, squeezing his mate's broad hand gratefully. He had not wanted to be so bold, but he had dreaded hearing the report of the trouble in his homeland, for the burden he faced was grave enough without that. "We believe the best way to help our people is to finish this Quest. Only then can we hope to end this war favourably."

"Well spoken," announced Celeborn,smiling grimly. "I expected nothing less, yet the words needed to come from you without any coaxing on our part. Let us not pretend the Quest is any the easier now, for it is not. It is much the worse now, I fear, and only a cruel death may await you at the finish."

"So be it," Gimli rumbled.

"What has happened, Hiren?" Legolas asked. "Who has the Ring?"

"Denethor in Minas Tirith," intoned Galadriel, her voice wreathed in scorn and anger. "Boromir wrested it from Frodo as the company stopped to rest at Rauros."

"Nay!" growled Gimli and only just stopped himself from spitting on the floor in his outrage. "I would not have believed it had not your own voice spoken it, my Lady."

"Yet you know what I dreamed," cautioned Legolas. "Boromir was not taking the Ring by force. They were under attack and he was trying to keep Frodo from using it and drawing the Nazgûl."

"What does the Mirror show?" Gimli demanded, for he was not so ready to give the Steward's son the benefit of Legolas' doubts.

"Alas, Master Gimli, your fears are just," mourned Galadriel. "He has been struggling against it since he came within its presence and I fear it became to much under the stress of battle."

"I am convinced he believed he was keeping the Ring from enemy hands," inserted Celeborn, "and he was successful. Denethor is not Sauron and thus we do have a chance to recover that vile talisman. All the fury of Barad Dur is now bent upon the White City and the Steward will pay dearly for his folly."

"Yet what has become of Mithrandir and the others? Are they also in Gondor?" Haldir asked.

Legolas shuddered. "Nay, not unless Denethor has truly turned to evil. In my dreams, our friends are captive in Isengard, subject to tortures and torments, for Saruman does not seem to know Boromir took the Ring. He seems to think the Ring is here."

"Perhaps," Galadriel smirked, "for so I have hinted, hoping to spare our friends' lives. Saruman thinks to learn my plans and captured the Fellowship believing the Ring was with them. He knows I am likely to be misleading, if you will, and thought the foray into enemy terrain was a feint to deceive him. He believes he has penetrated my defences of his own will, not suspecting I permitted his eavesdropping on my mind when it suited my purpose." She giggled, a girlish and gleeful sound quite out of synch with the devious words. Then her mirth vanished. "Now that he has them and has searched them, he has fallen back on what I allowed him to detect. So, they remain alive as long as he believes he can either get them to talk or he can get me to trade for them."

"And we are to be the emissaries to those trade negotiations?" Gimli asked, nodding as he pulled his beard. It was a good tactic. Once there, once inside, he and Legolas could arrange a rescue.

"That is the general idea," confirmed Celeborn. "Yet your two are not going to Isengard. For that, we have three volunteers ready and willing." He smiled at Haldir and his brothers. "You and Legolas must go after the Ring, I'm afraid, for as the two remaining members of the Fellowship the duty falls to you."

"And once we have it, what then, Hiren?" Legolas shuddered at the thought of actually coming in physical contact with the evil relic. "We can hardly sneak into Mordor unnoticed and dispose of it."

"Why not?" Gimli shrugged. "I don't know any people better at slinking about unseen than Wood Elves from Greenwood. Why, you folk can tunnel as well as Dwarves and run through the treetops as lightly as your more civilised sylvan cousins here in Lorien. Who better to slip past Sauron's nose?"

Legolas produced a roguish grin. "Perhaps you are right, for in a pinch you could pass for an Orc and I could disappear or confuse the enemy with my black magic."

"Why not both while you're at it?" quipped the Dwarf.

They all laughed a little at this but not very heartily and soon enough all were silent as the remaining members of the Fellowship still at large considered their fates.

"All right," Legolas said at last. "If that is the only way then that is what we shall have to do. Frodo had no better plan than this anyway and none of us really knew how to get him behind the gates of Mordor. We cannot do any worse than he."

"Aye," Gimli nodded and the two tightened the grip between them.

"Again, your convictions do you honour," said Celeborn and he stood to bow before them. "Yet, mayhap Haldir and his brothers might manage to free the others. If so, then all shall meet again in Gondor and once united, new plans may be made. Best not to be rigid in our designs at this point. The immediate goal is two-fold: recover the Ring from Denethor and free our friends from Saruman's prisons. Agreed?"

Naturally, everyone did. Back in their little stone house, Legolas moved about fitfully as they backed their few belongings, obviously troubled, and Gimli stopped his busy hands, held them tight within his own and waited in silence for the archer to summon courage to say what he must.

"Gimli," he began and halted, peering into the calm brown eyes with something akin to desperation.

"I am here. Speak, Legolas." Gimli gave the long fingers a reassuring squeeze.

"I cannot touch that thing!" Legolas finally blurted out. "I will help in any way but that. I am sorry, but I cannot touch that horrid Ring!"

"Aye, be at peace; I knew this already," smiled Gimli. "You have endured the touch of evil quite enough and then some. We will work out how it is to be done and I will safeguard the Ring until we reunite with Frodo."

"And if we never do? What if Haldir and his brothers also become prisoners?"

"Then, I will bear it into Mordor with you as my guide and my guardian."

The following morning Gimli arrayed his mate in the armour he had made, the shining, high-collared mail reaching all the way up his long elegant neck, the colour somehow rendered the fresh green of new leaves, the plates to protect his arms cunningly made to allow the free movement an archer requires, leaf shaped and burnished in gold, inlaid with fine mithril veins. The helmet was a masterpiece, exquisitely made in the semblance of a raptor's head with long spines of polished steel arising away and back like feathers, the nose guard sharply turned like the tearing bill of a hawk. Through the slits in the face shield his blues eyes flashed with pride and the remnants of his long golden mane escaped beneath the low, curved back made to protect his neck. It was armour fit for a prince of the forest and a hero of renown, and Gimli grunted with satisfaction to see his creation in use. Legolas knelt and kissed him soundly.

They marched side by side through Lorien amid the accolades and blessings of the Galadhrim, and slipped away down Anduin in a boat as had their colleagues. The night before, Haldir and his brothers has ridden away for the Gap of Rohan and the stronghold of Isengard.

TBC


End file.
